Teaming With The Shrew

Peter Argonis

 

©2025 by the author

Ricky Ryder, an established adult movie performer, is shocked by the sudden death of a coworker and friend, making him reexamine his life and goals. Quitting the adult movie business, he gets roped into doing a cameo in a cable network sitcom, just for giggles and bragging rights. Things mushroom from there into a new career and a loving relationship with a truly special woman.

Contents

1 - A Really Shitty Day

2 - Justice for Charlie Hell

3 - Career Change

4 - Stud Muffin

5 - Shakespearean

6 - The One With The Shingle

7 - Out of the Closet

8 - Ye Olde England

9 - Media Relations

10 - Having a Boarder

11 - New Digs

12 - Lucy

13 - Big Plans

14 - Plan P

15. Special Care Unit

16. Back Into The Grind

17 - Knee-jerk Reaction

18 - Europe Calling

19 - Satterthwaite House

 

 

1 - A Really Shitty Day

I still remember the moment like it was yesterday. I had just finished a meaningless, run-of-the-mill scene with a Russian chick, Nadia, Nastia, Natasha, whatever, and I was leaving the shower, when Floyd, the producer/director and a sorta-friend of mine, came into the bathroom looking shaken and close to tears.

"Rick, I just got a phone call. Charlie died."

For a few precious moments my brain refused to acknowledge that information. A misunderstanding, a mishearing, a mix-up. Floyd kept on talking, though, eliminating all those comforting explanations.

"She had a heart attack, right in the operating room. They did everything, but they couldn't bring her back. Oh my God! I talked to her, just yesterday and now... she's gone."

Floyd was crying like a little boy by now. I couldn't. Not yet. Not before this news settled fully on me. I was numb.

Charlie was a friend, one of the perhaps ten people I called friends. She was a colleague, too. I befriend a few colleagues since most others folks won't give me the time of the day. I am an adult movie performer. That's the description I use. Calling myself anything with "actor" in it would be laughable. This isn't the seventies or eighties anymore. These days, the script for a major smut production fits on the screen of an iPhone, and you don’t need to scroll much.

When I was still a greenhorn, the veteran performers told me how they rehearsed dialogue for the seventies' smut flicks. I found the idea hilarious. These days all the rehearsal some guys need is provided by Pfizer. For the girls, it's a douche and an enema.

Anyway, I met Charlie five years before, when she came in fresh from the cornfields of Kansas: a naive, blue-eyed cheerleader who believed her piece-of-shit agent when he told her she'd make it big by starting in the 'minor leagues'. That's what he called the adult movie business. She wised up within a year and kicked his sorry ass to the side, but by that time she had done thirty-two productions and no legit producer would consider her even for a hemorrhoid ointment commercial.

The strange thing was that she kept up that naive ditziness in spite of all the hard knocks she got. Peritonitis due to an overeager anal dildo fucking at the hands of a brain-dead bimbo, two broken fingers when an inept dominant fucked up with his clamps, and worst, a severe concussion when she was supposed to do an upside-down blowjob and her moron partner dropped her. Well, he, too, was severely concussed when my buddy Jean and I found him later that day. He was blacklisted, too, and last I heard, he does gay stuff in Brazil. We must have damaged his head more than we planned.

All that did not change her. She was cheery, friendly, and incorrigibly optimistic. Ditzy, too, in a heart-warming, endearing way. There wasn't a bad bone in this girl. And now she was dead?

"What was she doing in surgery?" I heard myself asking.

"Boob job," Floyd answered miserably. "I told her that she looked great the way she was. Jeez, Ricky, I know you told her, too. It's those fucktards from Alluring Angels who talked her into that shit."

AA are a major outfit and they produce smut by the terabytes. Their boss, Larry Highwater, brags that he has shootings going on every fucking day of the year. Charlie wanted to get in there for the regular work they offered and she thought it was a good idea to invest in a set of aftermarket tits. Damn it to Hell!

"Hey, she's your friend, too, right. You know anything about her folks?"

"Yeah. She's got a kid sister in college, up north in Eureka. Charlie bankrolled her. Parents, I wouldn't know. Charlie started clamming up when I mentioned anything about family."

"Think you can locate that sister, Rick?"

"Not off-hand. There ought to be some stuff in her apartment, though. I have a key, but then again, let's have the cops do their stuff first, right?"

I drove home to my Canoga Park condo in a funk. The weather was gorgeous, no smog, and the traffic was light on this Friday afternoon, but LA looked like shit in my eyes. Another girl chewed up and spat out by this place. At home, I found a bottle of Glenmorangie, still half full, and it helped to tide me over the evening.

At least it was good stuff and I didn't have a hangover the next morning. I was scheduled for a scene at a place in Bel Air. There's always empty houses, in between owners, and the real estate agents love to take the five hundred bucks wild money for a few hours of shooting. Andrew Conolly was our producer and he made the introductions with my partner du jour, Sophie Derriere, and the fluffer, Shawna.

At least, I knew Shawna. If anybody could keep me hard for a morning of shooting, Shawna was the girl. She isn't the cutest girl around, hell, she has a bit of a dog face, and she is chubby, but what she can do with lips, tongue and throat makes her earn steady money as a fluffer. Okay, for those of you who don't know, a fluffer makes and keeps male performers hard between cuts. I know, in the golden days, male and female performers retired to a private room and made out before a scene, but time is money these days. Plus, the female performers need to be readied for the almost inevitable anal penetration that is almost standard fare these days.

Anyway, Shawna did a great job as usual and I entered the set sporting a decent woody. A real one. As a rule, I don't use the blue pills, at least not yet. The lesbian scene with Sophie Derriere was in the bag already, and they had draped her over the four-poster bed in a very fuckable position: on her side, her delicious derriere — she had picked an apt name — tilted upward. It was an encouraging sight and I settled right in, doing the old in-and-out while the guy with the hand camera zoomed in.

Sophia was still wearing a frilly blouse, with only her bottoms exposed and she looked sexy enough to last about a year in the business.

Next came doggie and no complaints from me. The girl even got into it a little bit, I could tell, wiggling her ass and clenching her pussy ever so slightly. Towards the end, Andrew gave me the finger and obediently I pressed my thumb against Sophia's anus. She was greased and all, but she clenched, uncomfortable with the anal play. This would be a toughie.

It was. I was supposed to penetrate her anus in missionary, with her ankles up over my shoulders, but she could not relax. We tried five times. She was too tight. Shawna came in with more grease, but she could barely fit one of her fingers in Sophia's clenched sphincter.

"Jesus, what is it with you?" Andrew demanded of the girl.

Her face was red like a tomato and her eyes were filled with tears already. She shook her head. "I'm trying, hard," she claimed with a heavy Russian accent. "I thought I could do it."

"Hey Ricky, why not push a little harder? Once you're in, she'll relax."

I gave him a cold look. "Have you any idea how much that would hurt her?"

"Damn it! I paid for anal. If I wanted vanilla fucking, I'd have found a fucking nun!"

Sophia got the water works going just about then and she dropped back on the bed. Her blouse had ridden up a bit and now I had a look at the underside of her breasts. I could see the fresh, red scars of a lousy boob-job and within a second her clenching anus became a moot issue. I don't think I ever lost an erection that quickly. Charlie's death was in the front of my mind again. I climbed from the bed.

"What now?" Andrew demanded.

"Sorry, no can do, man," I answered, thinking that no amount of fluffing would get me hard again.

"Shawna, get your fat ass over here! Our leading man is losing it." Andrew yelled.

I shook my head. "Sorry, not today."

"Listen, I can get an ass-double here inside an hour. We'll keep the angles, you bugger her, and then you do the money shot over Sophie's tits and face. Hang in there man; I'm on a schedule."

"Andrew, haven't you heard about Charlie Hell?"

"What of her?"

"She died yesterday getting a boob job. With Sophia’s fresh scars, you can pump a wagon load of Spanish Fly into my balls and I still couldn't shoot over her tits."

"Jeez, I didn't know. Charlie? That's heavy, man. Sorry. But still, what if she keeps on her blouse, you're up for it?"

It was a shitty day. They got in the ass-double, a veteran performer whose face showed the mileage, but who had kept her legs and ass in decent shape. For the first time, I contemplated popping a blue pill. Yet, Shawna's efforts got me at least hard enough to achieve anal penetration. I pumped for about five or six minutes until Andrew gave a signal that he had enough footage. I washed up thoroughly afterwards and then Sophie went down on me. Her eyes were red from crying and she was uncomfortable as hell sucking me off after I had just ass-fucked the double. She was a trouper though, and she did her best. So did I, but it was pitiful. I finally squeezed out a pathetic dribble that would only pass for a come shot under very liberal interpretation.

Sophie had also washed and rinsed, and she did not taste bad. Still, my heart was not in it, and we did not click. I licked and nibbled for ten minutes before Andrew called it a wrap.

"Listen, Andy, you better find someone else for Monday. I'm not up for it, and Monday will be Charlie's wake most likely."

"Yeah, yeah, I can see where you're coming from," Andrew answered. "You wanna cancel all shoots next week?"

"Yeah, I better. Guess I'll take a week or two off. I'll let you know when I'm available again.”

—————

I had a fresh bottle of Glenmorangie and I was just getting acquainted with its contents when my cell chirped.

"Mister Richard Borgward?" the male voice at the other end inquired.

I wondered who the hell this could be who knew my real name.

"Yes?" I asked cautiously.

"James McFadden, attorney at law. I am calling in the case of the deceased Miss Carlotta Hellstrøm, also known as Charlie Hell."

"Yes?"

"Miss Hellstrøm named you executor of her will, and I am contacting you to deliver a letter from the deceased."

Now I remembered. Three years ago, Charlie had gone through four months of AIDS scare when a guy she had worked with died of the disease. It had been early in her West Coast career, and she had gone bareback with him at the insistence of the producer. Anyway, she never tested seropositive, but during her scare she had written a will and she had asked me a favor. More of this later.

"Yes, I remember now. Should I come to your office?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm standing in front of your house. May I come in?"

"The better even. I don't think I should drive."

I let him in. He was a stuffy old man, clearly not the type you'd associate with clients such as Charlie. The letter he handed to me contained a sweet greeting from Charlie and a reminder of what I had promised. Somehow, that letter did me in. I started to cry like a fucking baby. Imagine that, Ricky Ryder, the toughest fucker west of the Rockies, cries his eyes out over a sweet farewell note from a ditzy blonde.

Obviously, McFadden was used to things like that when dealing with estate matters. I poured myself a double shot and offered another to McFadden. We solemnly toasted Charlie with well aged single-malt before he turned back to business.

"Miss Hellstrøm has named her younger sister as a beneficiary of her estate. This fact may be contested by her parents who, as I understand, are alive."

I gave him an ugly smile.

"Lovely! I hope they show up here. By the way, are you a criminal defense lawyer too?"

"Are we talking aggravated assault? Yes, I am aware of Miss Hellstrøm's history with her father. I am to give you this. Miss Hellstrøm wrote this diary. Her instructions are for you to use it at will."

I sighed heavily and accepted the book.

"Oh, there is another problem. Her sister will be coming in from Eureka tomorrow at eleven-fifteen. I have the flight information. Could you perhaps pick her up? It's her first time in LA and I barely knew her sister."

"Yes, I can pick her up. She can use Charlie's apartment while she's in town."

"Miss Hellstrøm rented that apartment from you?"

"Yes."

"Furnished?"

"Fully furnished, complete with pots and pans and the whole caboodle."

"May I inspect the place to identify any valuables that might be contested later?"

"Sure. I doubt there is anything her parents may want, except perhaps the Adult Movie Award for Best Blowjob, Female.”

We shared a sad grin. Charlie's father, besides being an adulterer and child molester, was also a minister of some obscure denomination and a bible thumper of, well, biblical proportions. I am convinced that this was Charlie's major motivation to enter the Adult Movie Industry.

—————

I drove out to LAX at around nine-thirty, making the short-term parking in time for the girl's arrival. Brenda-Lee Hellstrøm was her name, and I recognized her right away as she emerged from the luggage claim into the arrivals hall. Where Charlie had been a bottle-blonde, Brenda-Lee had her natural, dishwater blonde hair bound in a ponytail. The face was eerily similar to Charlie's, only slimmer, but where her sister's eyes had been a light blue, Brenda-Lee had greenish eyes. I stepped forward.

"Miss Hellstrøm?" I asked and she whipped around staring at me. "I'm Richard Borgward. I am, sorry, was, a good friend of Charlie. I came to give you a lift."

Her eyes scanned me up and down, and her face showed discomfort.

"You're Ricky Ryder?"

"Only for those who watch smut flicks until the credits roll," I answered with a weak smile. "My real name's Richard Borgward."

"I need to meet Mister McFadden, Charlie's lawyer."

"He'll be at Charlie's apartment. She rented it from me, and it's paid for the whole month. You can use it during your stay. She also had a car you can use."

"Oh, okay. Thank you, Mister Borgward."

I took her duffle bag against her protestations and led the way out from the terminal and to the short term parking.

"What kind of car is that?" she asked, rather suspiciously.

"A Borgward," I answered with a straight face.

It's true. I don't think my family is in any way related to the Borgward family of Bremen, Germany, who owned the car manufacturing plant that produced Borgward cars from 1952 to 1961. My grandfather left Germany in 1937. He died before I was born, and my father never talked about any relatives in Germany. Nevertheless, seven years ago, when I did a vanity search for my name on the internet, I found out about the defunct car brand. I have two now, a 1954 Hansa 1500 Cabriolet and a 1959 model Isabella. They cost me a bundle, let me tell you, but the Cabriolet is one of only fifteen still in existence. I had brought the Isabella today, a two-door mid-size sedan in mint condition, mid-sized for post-WWII Europe that is.

Brenda-Lee Hellstrøm stared at the stylized maker's name on the side and shook her head. "Why do you have your name on the car?"

"It's a 1959 Borgward Isabella, no relation. I like it though. I have another one, a ragtop, but this one has a bigger trunk."

I threw the duffle bag into said trunk and opened the passenger side door for Brenda-Lee. She shook her head again. The inside of a 1950s car is spartan by today’s standards, and German cars of the time were even more spartan. We rolled off the parking deck and merged into the access road, heading for Malibu Beach. There was no air conditioning, but I cranked open the soft sunroof for fresh air.

I told Brenda-Lee of the funeral arrangements as far as I knew them. As per Charlie's will, the funeral would be a simple civil ceremony ending with a cremation. She had also expressly forbidden her father to attend the funeral. When I told Brenda-Lee about that, she hugged herself and shivered slightly.

"They'll try to get me back home," she said miserably.

"You're over eighteen. You don't have to talk to them if you don't want to. I know a few guys who work as security personnel. I'll ask them to keep the pests out."

"Would you do that? I don't think I can stand to see him."

"Him" had to be her father. According to the diary Charlie had bequeathed to me, the Reverend Hellstrøm had started to molest Charlie when she turned ten. At first, he did it under the guise of spanking her for trumped-up transgressions. It went from flat hand to fingers, before he dropped all pretense and his pants. At thirteen, Charlie was well versed in the ways of the flesh, courtesy of Reverend Daddy.

On the day of her graduation, Charlie collected the money from the presents she got and boarded a westward bound Greyhound. She returned only once, two years later. On a Sunday, after Brenda-Lee's graduation, while her parents were preparing for church service, she whisked her kid sister away and registered her at a college in NorCal.

"We'll make sure he won't get near you."

We drove in silence for a few minutes before Brenda-Lee had her next question.

"You and Charlie, were you a couple?"

"Just good friends. I really liked her. She was a good kid."

Damn, the waterworks started again. Brenda-Lee saw it. She put her small hand on my arm.

"Thanks for being her friend."

"It was my pleasure, really. Most people never saw past the persona she had built around her as an armor. I'm going to miss her like crazy."

"Do you know that she paid for my college?"

"Sure. She was so proud of you."

"I don't mean to sound... materialistic, but what's going to happen now?"

"Don't worry. Your education is secure, all the way up to a doctorate, if that's what you want. It's just, the attorney will tell you there's only a few hundred bucks in her checking account. Act desperate. Charlie salted away her money. She wanted to keep your parents from ever getting their paws on it. You know, they're entitled to a share of the estate, and Charlie would have rather burnt all her money than let them profit from her work."

"But where is it?"

"In an account under my name. I won't bore you with details, but it's airtight. Charlie had power of attorney for the account, but no ownership, so it's not part of the estate. Nobody can prove skimming either. She paid me rent for the apartment, which was hers in the first place. I bought it with her money, and we set up my will so that she or you will inherit it."

"Thank you," she said in a low voice. "I guess I'm beginning to trust you."

"Huh?"

"You could have kept all that to yourself, and I wouldn't have been any wiser. Is there any way for me to get ownership without giving my parents an in?"

"Fancy getting married?"

"What?

"It's easy. We marry in Vegas and a year later, which we'll spend apart, we have ourselves a nice, civil Nevada divorce. You'll get the apartment as settlement and some cash. Neat, isn't it? And here's the kicker: you can let everybody back in South Bumfuck, Kansas, know that you married a porn actor. Your father will hemorrhage."

"Sounds neat, but then there's the thing with the wedding night. I don't know you well enough for that."

"I can send you a few of my DVDs so you'll know what to expect."

She didn't answer, and I felt like shit when I realized my insensitivity. My banter was really uncalled for in this situation.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I sort of forgot the purpose of your stay."

"It's okay. Life goes on and all. May I ask a question?"

"Shoot!"

"How do you see yourself in the future? You must be over thirty, right? How much longer can you do this?"

"I don't know. Technically, there's no limit, and some guys really do it really for a long time. You get jaded with time, though. I figure one more year and then I'll call it quits. I'll finish my JD next summer."

She stared at me, open-mouthed.

"You're going to law school?"

"Hell, it's not UCLA, but I'll have a real JD degree. I may even go for a SJD, who knows? I've got enough money stashed away to see me through a program."

She looked at me sideways, and her mouth twitch with barely suppressed mirth.

"You could be a college professor,” she finally grinned. "I'm sure, your classes will be well filled."

“I don’t think any college dean will touch me with a ten foot pole, but one can always dream. You’re an English major?”

“Yes, and I’m doing a minor in Creative Writing.”

“So you want to be a writer?”

She shook her head.

“I’m not sure. I thought about it, but... Charlie wanted to be an actress, and look where she landed.”

“Yeah, there’s some truth in that. Look, there’s the apartment building. Charlie’s condo is on the fourth.”

I drove through the gate and parked in a visitor spot. Then I locked the anti-theft device over the steering wheel while Brenda-Lee looked at me unbelievingly.

“Who’ll steal this piece of junk?” she asked.

“There’s only eighty or ninety of this model left in the world. At auction, it would fetch upwards of ninety grand.”

She shook her head.

“What kind of car did Charlie have? When she picked me up, she had that pink Audi convertible.”

“Good God!” I affected a shudder. “That eye-sore? No, she’s got a real beauty now.” I pointed at a red ’75 Camaro.

“You’ve got to be kidding, right?”

“Nope, and the car’s got a history. Ever seen The Accused?”

Her eyes widened. “You are kidding! That’s the car? Sxy Sadie?”

“It got banged up in the movie, but somebody straightened it out again and restored it. Charlie got it for sixteen grand about a year ago. You know how much she adored Jodie Foster?”

Brenda-Lee nodded sadly. “We watched The Accused when I was fourteen. Our parents were visiting friends and we watched it on the old black and white set in the church office. We didn’t have a TV at home; my father didn’t want us to get sinful thoughts. Anyway, we cried all the time, and then, Charlie said that one day, she’d be an actress, too.” She shook her head sadly. “I've got to keep that car. I can see how much she must have loved it.”

I led her into the apartment, opening with my own key. The inside was as if Charlie had just left. We spent an hour checking the contents of the fridge, changing the sheets on the bed for Brenda-Lee and airing the place out. I left Brenda then, gave her my key and drove home. I left my cell phone number with Brenda-Lee in case she needed something, but she did not call all day and I assumed correctly that she wanted to be left alone.

2 - Justice for Charlie Hell

The wake for Charlie was in the next morning. I was astounded seeing just how many people showed. Most were fellow performers, directors and producers, people whom Charlie had worked with. I could tell that Brenda-Lee was quite flustered when all those unspeakable people approached her to offer their condolences. Right at the end, there was some disturbance at the funeral home’s entrance, and I went to investigate.

Fortunately, McFadden was there, blocking the entrance for the Reverend Hellstrøm and his wife.

“I am sorry, but the deceased stipulated in her will that you are not allowed at her funeral,” I heard McFadden say when I approached.

“What nonsense! She is my daughter, and even if she lived her life in depravity and sin, we came to bring her home, back to the bosom of her church.”

“That will not be possible. Miss Hellstrøm specified a cremation and charged one of her friends with the care for her ashes.”

“Only heathens burn their dead!” Hellstrøm thundered.

I couldn’t help myself, I stepped forward.

“She wanted to be cremated to make sure that you could never get your hands on her again, even dead,” I said with a loud voice. “That’s how much she despised you. Now scram!”

A fellow performer and friend came up, Jean Bresson aka Jean La Bête, one of my buddies. Jean had played the mad rapist or the village idiot, back when porn flicks had a plot. Now he’s directing. He’s French by birth, ugly as sin, and six foot six tall. I’ve worked with him. His dick looks kinda small although it’s a full eight inches, simply because the brute is so huge himself. Now he built himself up in front of the Reverend.

“That’s Charlie’s kid-fucking father?” he asked with extra venom in his scary, gravelly bass. “Do I give him the work-over?”

Hellstrøm stepped back in panic. “Stay away from me, spawn from hell!” he exclaimed, turning to flee, but he stopped in his tracks. There in front of him stood Charlie’s friend and frequent partner, Xasha Green, dressed in full Goth regalia.

“Get lost, you ugly child molester!” she hissed angrily.

Xasha is small, but scary. There is a constant unholy fire in her green eyes, and it was blazing brightly in this moment.

“The opening of Miss Hellstrøm’s will is three days from now, at my office!” McFadden called after the fleeing Hellstrøms.

I looked around only to see Brenda-Lee standing there, staring after her retreating parents with clenched fists at her side and trembling with rage.

“That… that monster! How dare he come?”

Xasha wrapped the shaking girl in her arms.

“Hey, don’t worry, Sweetie. That creep comes near you, and I’ll rip off his balls and feed them to Jean.”

Jean laughed grimly. “Only if he gets past me. Listen, Brenda-Lee? Charlie was our friend, and many of us know what that creep did to her. If you want, one of the girls can stay with you while you’re here in LA, to watch over you.”

Brenda-Lee made a face. “He can be very brutal,” she whispered.

Jean cracked his knuckles. “Can he, huh? Ricky, what do you say? Should I arrange for the good reverend to star in an upcoming underground bondage flick?”

I shook my head slowly. “I have a better idea. Let me bounce it off a couple of people who should have veto rights. Then, if they agree, I'll contact you. You too, Xasha." I turned to the attorney. "Listen, Mister McFadden, would it be possible to invite Miss Green and Mister Bresson to the opening of Charlie's will. That should really annoy the Reverend."

McFadden nodded stiffly. "If Miss Green and Mister Bresson are close friends of the deceased, I can see no problems. Miss Hellstrøm, do you object?"

Brenda-Lee looked at the two freaks, but then shrugged.

"If my father's there, I can use the backup. Will you be there, too, Mister Borgward?"

I nodded. "Of course."

—————

We received Charlie's ashes from the undertaker two days later. I called Jean and Xasha and a few more people who had befriended her. We formed a four-car procession and drove north, with Brenda piloting the Camaro for the first time. There is a small cove with a beach west of Point Dume, Malibu, where Charlie had loved to relax, and she wanted her ashes scattered there. We parked the cars on Grasswood Ave. and walked a mile or so to reach the little beach. We formed a half circle holding hands while Brenda-Lee released the ashes into the warm Pacific breeze. That done, we spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach, each of us giving Charlie a brief, impromptu eulogy. We also drank. A lot.

Then I broke out Charlie's legacy, her diary and her affidavit. Brenda-Lee allowed me to read from the diary which Charlie had started at age eleven, before her father began to chastise her using a cane on her bare bottom, and a year before he raped her for the first time. I had read it before, but I still could not keep my voice in check when I recited her desperate entries from the diary. I put an arm around Brenda-Lee, and Xasha held her from the other side as the girl rocked her body and tears ran down her cheeks. More bottles made the round.

When I was done reading, Brenda-Lee spoke up.

"When Charlie rescued me, I had gone through two years of that, too. He first took me the day after Charlie left. Then twice a week and more for two years. Then less. He had another girl then; the daughter of a parishioner. Charlie kept contact with me, and when I graduated, she was waiting outside the school building in that pink Audi convertible. I jumped in, and we got the hell out of Dodge. She never took me to LA; she drove me straight to Eureka and placed me in the dorm. She had even arranged for summer courses to bring me up to scratch. She was the only person in my life whom I trusted, and now she's gone."

Xasha rubbed her back. "Hell, Brenda-Lee, you have a beach full of friends right now. Charlie was our friend and if there's anything a bunch of freaks can do for you, let us know and consider it done."

“Hear, hear!" I seconded. "Listen, you freaks, I'm sitting on this diary, plus a notarized affidavit in which Charlie detailed the abuse from her father. It's got a few anatomical details with which we may nail the bastard, but the problem is that for most of the stuff the statutes ran out already. Brenda-Lee could file charges, but then again from what Charlie wrote, the old bastard is best friends with the local yokels back in that God-forsaken shithole."

"What are you getting at, Ricky?" Xasha hissed. "You want him to get away?"

"The abuse was done at home; and that's where the jurisdiction is. Hardly a chance, I'd say. But then again, we're a bunch of half-assed actors, directors and producers. What if we turn Charlie's diary into a sort of documentary? The asshole will sue us for libel, but he'll have to file charges here where it's produced and where he has no clout. The diary will be entered as evidence. If Brenda agrees, she can testify, too. We'll crucify him publicly in civil court."

Floyd jumped up. "I'm in. Who else?"

Xasha just nodded, an evil grin on her beautiful face. Jean La Bête stood and cracked his knuckles.

"If you let me, I'll direct my first ever non-porn film. Who do you want to cast as Charlie? She was unique."

As one, we looked at Brenda-Lee who turned pale.

"I'm not an actress!"

I had to snort. "Welcome to the club! If any of us here had more than fifteen lines of dialogue in any of his or her productions, I'd be very surprised. You're a performing arts minor, right?"

"Yeah, but I… she…" She saw all of us looking at her and seemed to grow a little. "Damn! If you think I can help, I'll do it. Only, I won't do, you know, adult scenes."

"First we need to work out a concept," Floyd said. "Then a script. We need to get an idea of the budget we'll need. If we do include play scenes we'll need make-up and special effects and all that."

"You'll need a camera operator," Ricardo Montez put in. "I do commercials and music videos on the side and once I filled in at a sitcom shooting."

And just like that, a bunch of half drunk porn folks decided to make a documentary. We even came up with a working title: "Charlie Hell — Sweet Girl, Bitter Past."

From the beach, we walked back to our cars. We decided we were not sober enough, so we only drove a couple of blocks to a Mexican restaurant. Over tamales and enchiladas, we developed the idea further. It was close to midnight when we — almost sober again — called it a day. Brenda-Lee, Xasha, Jean and I agreed to drive to McFadden's office together, and Xasha stayed the night with Brenda in Charlie's apartment.

—————

The Reverend Hellstrøm did not like it one bit when we entered the office for the reading of the will, but McFadden paid him no attention whatsoever. Evidently, the lawyer had at least skimmed over Charlie's diary since he treated her father without the slightest hint of respect. While Jean and I framed Brenda-Lee on either side, Xasha plopped her black leather-clad behind on the seat right next to the Reverend.

"Found any kids to fuck today?" she asked conversationally.

Hellstrøm stood angrily. "Stand back, you brazen Jezebel! I am a man of the cloth and..."

"I did a scene once where a guy dressed as a reverend fucked my ass," she informed him sweetly. “Of course, he wasn't as ugly as you."

“You… you… you defiled a frock?" Hellstrøm stammered.

Xasha popped a gum bubble before she answered.

"Yeah, that was when I worked for Naughty Nookie Productions. I also did a scene as a nun in a gang bang. That outfit was ruined afterwards I'm telling ya, with all the sperm stains on the black fabric."

"Ha-hrm!" McFadden started. "May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen? This is the reading of Carlotta Hellstrøm's Last Will. Would you kindly raise your hand when I read your names? Martin Hellstrøm? Maria Hellstrøm? Brenda-Lee Hellstrøm? Richard Borgward? Jean Bresson? Alexandra Greenbaum?"

We all lifted a hand as our names were read.

"Thank you. Now, Miss Hellstrøm has named her sister Brenda-Lee Hellstrøm as main beneficiary of her will. She will inherit Miss Hellstrøm's savings account, minus the costs for the burial service, and her checking account. The combined balance comes to $825.73 after the deductions. She will also inherit Miss Hellstrøm's car, a 1975 — 1975? — Chevrolet Camaro, valued at $450. To her father and mother she bequeathed her most prized possession, the 2008 Adult Movie Award for Best Blowjob by a Female Performer. It is valued at $950."

I admired McFadden for getting this out without losing it. Hellstrøm turned purple while his docile cow of a wife hid her face in her hands. McFadden kept going.

"Her clothes which she deemed unfit for her sister to wear will be sold at internet auction and the proceeds will go to the St. Theresa Shelter For Battered Women in San Clemente."

"We'll need to buy some of her stuff for props!" Jean whispered to me.

"Where is the rest of her money?" Hellstrøm almost shouted. "She whored out her body for profit! There must be more!"

"Going over her financial records I found that she paid $3,450 monthly rent for her apartment in Malibu. The apartment came fully furnished, and I'm afraid it contains nothing but her clothes and a few feminine hygiene articles."

"Almost $3,500 rent? What did she rent? A sixteen bedroom villa?"

McFadden polished his glasses. "Mister Hellstrøm, apartments in Malibu are very expensive."

"So there's nothing left but a few dollars and a junk car?"

"Don't forget the Best Blowjob AMA," I put in helpfully.

He fixated me with a stare that would have killed any of his benighted parishioners. Fortunately, I am made of sterner stuff and I just grinned back at him. He kept staring at me, but then he must have thought of something new, for he faced his remaining daughter.

"Hah! She left you with nothing! What will you do now? Don't think for a moment that I will support you with my hard-earned money!"

"I'll get a student loan. I can manage," Brenda-Lee answered. "I wouldn’t take your money to get life-saving surgery."

"Don't worry, Sweetie," Xasha purred. "We can do lesbian nun scenes together and rake in the cash. We’ll call ourselves the Sisters of Babylon. You just fly down here for a weekend each month, and I'll see that you’ll earn your living and enjoy it!"

"Jezebel!" Hellstrøm exclaimed for lack of a more original phrase. "Satan will have your soul, just like he owns your sister's!"

"It'll be a regular family meeting down there," Brenda-Lee answered with a nasty grin. "If you arrive first, don't wait up for me."

"Come, Maria!" he ordered his wife. "Let us not breathe the same air as these lost sinners."

With her in tow, he stormed out of McFadden's office. The worthy man shrugged.

"It would seem that the good Reverend forgot his bequest. Miss Hellstrøm, perhaps you can provide a sending address?"

Brenda-Lee shook her head. "He refused it, and I think we can use it for the documentary. Listen, you guys: I'm on board with you, but I want a say in the script and in the finished product. Creative control remains with this core group. I don't want Charlie exploited."

We all nodded solemnly. Besides, for what I had in mind we would not need outside producers or even a regular distribution channel. If all else failed, we'd put it up on YouTube.

—————

Two months after Charlie's service I was driving a rented panel truck through the endless wheat fields of Kansas. We were on our way to do the local shooting in Hornville, KS, a small township to the west of Wichita. Hornville merited twelve lines on Wikipedia, but we figured that might change a bit after we were done. We had picked that weekend because Hellstrøm was out of town at some church convention, with his wife and most of his prominent parishioners.

We'd blow into town and get footage of the church, the Hellstrøms' house, the high school and a few other places of interest, such as the diner where Charlie had worked one summer. Brenda-Lee was with us. She was terribly flustered over her first shots. It was a Saturday afternoon and she walked around the deserted high school dressed and made up as Charlie. That was not too difficult since Brenda-Lee still had the dresses Charlie had to wear, handed down to her after Charlie left her parents.

We got some shots of her as she walked along the building pointing out her classrooms. Then we drove to the Hellstrøms' house. The place gave me the creeps, and Brenda-Lee was shaky when she delivered her lines in front of the entrance. In the backyard, she sat on the old swing that was still there and spoke the first critical lines of monologue, detailing an early incident of abuse at the Reverend's hands.

We were leery of breaking any laws with a town full of jerks around, and so after a few more shots in random streets we relocated to the diner. Here it was impossible to keep up the charade. Brenda-Lee was recognized immediately, but amazingly, people took her for her dead sister. Her asshole of a father had told nobody in town about the death of his daughter.

Improvising quickly, Jean changed Brenda-Lee's lines and she only recited text reminiscent of her short stint as waitress. The gathering of townsfolk around her who asked her about her life in LA was a bonus and Brenda-Lee really grew into the role. She had to improvise when she was asked about Ricardo's camera. She told them that we were making a documentary about her life and that she had ended her adult movie career. They took that as indication that we made a documentary to warn young girls of the perils of the big cities, and we were happy to leave them with that impression. We even got them to sign releases so we could use the footage.

Only the owner of the diner, one Jack Turner, watched us with a cynical smile. When we wrapped up and stowed the equipment in the bus, he came out.

"Hey, Brenda-Lee. Care to tell me what this is about? I know Charlie is dead, and I know at least three of you guys from the skin flicks."

I shrugged. "We told no lies. We're doing a documentary about Charlie."

"I take it the Reverend will not like it?"

I shrugged again. "It is possible that he may object to some of the facts we’ll reveal."

He nodded grimly and thought for a moment. Then he seemed to make up his mind.

"You wanna interview my sister? She lives in Wichita now. She’s got some things to tell about Hellstrøm."

I looked at the others, mostly at Brenda-Lee. She stepped closer.

"How is Karin?"

"She's good now. Her husband gave your father a sound beating when he showed up in Wichita once. I got drunk that night when she called me and told me about it."

Brenda-Lee looked around. "If nobody objects, I'd like a word with Karin."

We loaded up and left town, heading west. Once out of sight we drove south for ten miles until the navigation system told us to make another left turn and we were on our way to Wichita. Jack Turner was waiting in his truck at the next crossing. He asked me to ride shotgun with him, so I did while Jack led the way for our crew bus.

For the next hour, he asked me a boatload of questions about his favorite female performers. He was a true porn aficionado, a connoisseur of smut. He had memorized the videography of at least two dozen female porn stars and he assured me that he owned eight DVDs that featured me. He asked me about the tricks we used and whether I boinked any of the hot women off camera. Hell, I felt like a movie star with all the blatant adoration he showed me.

Fortunately, I knew several of his idols rather closely, and I promised him hand-signed photographs from them. When I mentioned that Xasha was involved in the project he very nearly shot a load into his pants! What could I do? I invited him for a visit to LA and promised him a dinner with one of his dream girls. I knew some of them were good sports and Jack was a handsome young man, albeit desperately in need of some IRL sex.

Finally we stood in front of a neat single family home in the Wichita suburbs and Jack went in to talk to his sister. She emerged with him and with a tall soldierly type of a guy with crew cut. Her husband Paul, we learned. Brenda-Lee and I talked to them first. They agreed to spill the beans on Hellstrøm provided we pixeled out her face and distorted her voice to protect her anonymity. We agreed to that and made arrangements for Sunday morning. Jack stayed with his sister overnight, not wanting to miss the shooting on the next morning.

Meanwhile, Floyd had located a notary public and against a stiff fee, the lady agreed to certify an affidavit the next morning, and we ran one up on Floyd’s laptop and printed it on the Krugers’ printer after dinner. We found a motel for the night, but for dinner the Krugers invited us over. Brenda-Lee and Karin spent a lot of the evening cooped up in Karin's bedroom, and we never learned what they talked about. The rest of us had pork chops and domestic beer with her husband, Paul Kruger, who regaled us with his story of how he had roughed up the Reverend Hellstrøm when the old geezer had shown up at their home to "visit" Karin. Since Paul was with the Wichita PD, there had been no repercussions for him once he clued his superiors in on the reverend's philandering. Paul promised to give us a heads-up if he heard of any moves by the reverend or his buddies.

We called it an evening then and returned to the motel. Brenda-Lee seemed very depressed during the short drive and when we said good night outside her room she looked fearful.

"Hey, Kiddo, what's eating you?" I asked.

She looked up. "Karin told me a few things. That man... he's so evil and I'm his daughter. What if..."

I could understand her worry. She had been raised by that man. How much had rubbed off she probably asked herself.

"You're not like him, Brenda. Charlie wasn't like him either. You're a great young woman as far as I can tell. Don't let that asshole drag you down!"

She smiled ruefully. "Thanks. You know, here I am, traveling with exactly the sort of people I was warned against all my life, and you know what? I feel safe with you guys. I feel that not one of you would allow me to be hurt."

"Not even Jean?" I asked and I was rewarded by a relieved giggle.

"He's like a huge old family dog — ugly, lovable and ready to fight for his folks. No, he can't scare me. You know, I could never do what you and Xasha do for a living, I mean not in front of a camera. Yet you guys have higher morals than anybody I knew while growing up."

"Don't let anyone hear that. You'll ruin our rep."

Brenda-Lee gave me a warm smile and reached out with her hand to touch my cheek. The touch felt infinitely intimate and to my surprise it caused an instant erection. Not that I have much problems getting hard, but from a simple touch on my cheek? Was I becoming a romantic in my old days?

"Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. Umh, Rick, I've got a favor to ask. I'm not coming on to you. It's just, today has freaked me out a bit. Your room is like mine, with two doubles?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I bunk in your room? I don't want to be alone. It's not like I need contact, just someone I trust within reach."

"No problem with me, Kiddo. I'll try not to snore."

She moved her things into my room, and in no time at all we were ready to call it a night. Brenda was wearing a flannel PJ to bed, and I teased her a little about her granny style, but no for long.

We must have slept two hours when I woke from the banging on the door to the adjacent motel room. Soon, the banging intensified and I could hear voices, too.

"Open up, Brenda-Lee! I know you're in there. Open up!"

That must have been Hellstrøm, but now a second voice joined.

"Miss Hellstrøm, this is Sheriff Benson. Open up now!"

Brenda-Lee was sitting up in her bed, her eyes wide with terror. In a flash I was at her side while I retrieved the Kruger's phone number from the short-term memory of my cell phone. Paul Kruger answered after a few moments, and I clued him in. Meanwhile, I could hear the door to the next room being opened. Low voices filtered through the wall, and then somebody knocked on my door.

"Go away!" I yelled at the closed door. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Open up! It's Sheriff Benson. I need to search your room!"

I laughed at that.

"Wichita has a police department," I yelled at the door. "Get the hell outta here!"

"We'll break down the door!" I was warned. That was Hellstrøm.

"Knock yourself out! Just don't act surprised when you get arrested for breaking and entering."

We could hear animated whisper outside. Obviously the Sheriff was reluctant to commit a felony outside his own jurisdiction. Then the sound of police sirens was coming nearer and seconds later we heard harsh commands outside.

"Wichita PD! Hands over your heads and stand against the wall!"

"I'm Sheriff Benson and I'm..."

"Hands over your head, I said!"

More sirens could be heard, and the flashing lights illuminated our motel room. We dressed hurriedly and not too soon, because next we heard another knock on our door.

"This is Officer Kruger. Are you all right in there?"

I recognized the voice of Karin's husband and cracked the door open.

"Yes, we're fine. Brenda-Lee is with me." I looked around. Hellstrøm and a portly guy in a sheriff's uniform were leaning against a police cruiser with their hands cuffed behind their backs. "They entered Brenda-Lee's room without permission and threatened to break into my room."

Paul Kruger grinned. "I imagine they'll have a hard time explaining themselves to a judge. Miss Hellstrøm, are you filing a complaint?"

"Damn right I will," Brenda-Lee answered through gritted teeth.

"They trespassed on my property!" Hellstrøm shouted angrily. "They were in my backyard doing indecent things, I'm sure!"

Floyd stepped forward from the group of onlookers.

"Miss Hellstrøm invited us onto the property. She has a key to the Reverend's house. She is his daughter and her rights to enter the property were never revoked."

"You are?"

"Floyd Pearsons. I am producing a documentary about the life of Carlotta Hellstrøm, the Reverend's deceased older daughter. We were filming on location yesterday. I assure you that we never entered the house. We only filmed a sequence on the backyard swing set. The backyard is not fenced in either."

"Movie producer, eh?" one of the Wichita cops grinned. "Do I know any of your work?"

Floyd grinned back, completely at ease. "If yes, you may not want your colleagues to know."

The cops chuckled, but then Paul Kruger turned their attention back to the two arrested men. "Let's book them for the night. Santiago, you look for prints in the young lady's room to prove the illegal entering. We'll send somebody over to take your statements tomorrow, 'kay?"

That last sentence was directed at us and accompanied by a wolfish grin. Paul Kruger enjoyed this. Brenda-Lee nodded, and we followed suit.

—————

Come the next morning a slightly grumpy Brenda-Lee swore out a complaint at the police station. I had to give my testimony, too, and Floyd provided the Wichita cops with a copy of the video footage that Ricardo had shot the night before, showing Hellstrøm and his sheriff buddy entering Brenda-Lee's room.

It was a Sunday, and the judge would not hear the case before Monday, meaning both men would stay in custody. After leaving the police station, we shot the interview with Karen. To our surprise, Karin insisted on doing it without blotting her face out and without her voice being scrambled. She'd had a sleepless night to think it over, and she had decided to leave the closet. When we left we had about a half hour footage of Karen describing the abuse she had suffered at the reverend's hands. The events she related predated Charlie's ordeal.

We called it a wrap then. We had thought about shooting some more footage in Hornville but decided that the risk was too high. We figured the local law to be severely pissed off at us and left Wichita driving due west. Jack Turner bade his farewell and promised to visit us in Tinseltown to collect on my promises.

I was driving most of the way and Brenda-Lee rode shotgun with me. She quizzed me about the shoots I'd had with Charlie. How did she behave? How was she like on a set? Did she put on an accent? How much makeup did she wear? Brenda was asking all that to prepare for the upcoming shoots back in LA where she would have to play Charlie Hell, porn actress. She wanted to get it right, wanted to do her sister justice, and I told her as much as I knew.

Over the next two weeks, we covered all the stations of Charlie's career. We got a lot of her former partners to talk about her. We also ambushed the assholes at Alluring Angels who coerced Charlie into having the fatal boob job. They had "no comment" and threatened to call security, but we had caught them out in the street and their lone bruiser was hesitant to tangle with Jean.

Like quite a few other newbies, Charlie had done her first scene with me. That had been back in my New York days, before I moved to California. We rebuilt that scene from my memories. It meant for Brenda-Lee and I to be nude on the bed in a cheap hotel room. An old cathode ray TV set was showing a grainy MTV video Jean had found in his collection, and we went through the motions of a newbie audition flick. Brenda-Lee was as nervous and awkward as Charlie had been, and I tried to channel my own behavior from ten years back.

It's been a few years since I auditioned newbies. Today, the Russian, Hungarian and Czech girls already have two dozen flicks under their belt before they get their first invite by American producers. They are nineteen and professionals. No need to give them a gentle introduction. I miss the old days.

Anyway, Brenda and I made it through the scene. At one point I developed an erection lying so close to Brenda-Lee and stroking her back while she simulated a blowjob, and she gave it a playful slap when Jean called "cut!". On the whole, Brenda was a trouper when it came to the partial nudity that was required for authenticity.

Then, on the last day of shooting, Brenda-Lee and Xasha had their scene. Ricardo was careful to catch as little nudity of Brenda as possible as the two were simulating a lesbian porn shoot. When they were finished, Xasha was crying.

We gave the girls an hour to come to grips and to redo their makeup, and then they sat again, this time in girl-next-door clothes. Taking turns, they read selected entries from Charlie's diary. We all had goose bumps hearing Brenda-Lee as she put all the hurt she had herself suffered into the rendition. Xasha surprised us even more. Without the Goth warpaint she looked incredibly young and vulnerable, but her reading from the diary conveyed a seething anger that made me wonder what torments were lying in her past.

The wrap party that evening was very subdued. Both Brenda-Lee and Xasha ended up sleeping in my apartment and sharing a bed.

3 - Career Change

A week later, I was back in the grind. Jean and Floyd were shacked up at Floyds place and busy with post production. Brenda-Lee was back in NorCal, and Xasha accompanied her claiming a need for a break. I had four shoots lined up for the week, and I found the prospect a little unsettling.

I had not done any hardcore shoots in two months, and I felt strange going through my time-honored preparation routines. I went to bed early and sober after a light work-out. I slept well enough and showed up two hours early at the location, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I knew the female performer of the day, Gina Duvalle, but not my male co-performer. He turned out to be one of those poster boys for steroid abuse, with lots of ink and a pelican chin. Luckily for Gina, his tool of the trade had already suffered from his steroid intake as he was the one scheduled for the anal penetration.

We were all professionals and pretty soon we were going through the various activities the producer/director wanted. It was standard fare, first oral/vaginal then vaginal/anal double penetration in various positions. At one point I held Gina up and penetrated her vagina while my partner, who shall be kept nameless, sawed in and out of her anus. This brought us pretty close and I saw the unclear skin, the bad teeth, and other signs of ill health. I almost lost it then, and when I showered after the scene, I had made up my mind.

Back at home, I composed an email which I sent to all the producers with whom I had worked in the previous years and informed them of my retirement. That last scene had made it clear to me that I had to get out while I was still alive and healthy. I had a decent stash of money tucked away, enough to last me for a while. The apartment was my own, and my needs were modest.

Jean called me only a few minutes later. He was with Floyd when my email arrived.

"Hey, Ricky! What's that? You're retiring?"

"Yeah. Tell Floyd I have to cancel the shoot on Friday. I just can't do it anymore. I want out."

"You wanna switch to directing?"

I had considered that, but decided against it. "No, not really. I'll finish my juris doctor first, and then, who knows."

"I'll miss you, Ricky, and so will the girls. You haven't caught anything, no?"

"No, but I want out before I do. This morning I did a DP scene with some juiced-up bruiser type. I don't want to catch whatever he has."

Jean chuckled deeply. "Merde! I hate those. Can't keep it up without pills either. Anyway, Ricky, don't be a stranger."

"No way. Let me know if I can help you with the editing and stuff."

"Will do. Floyd sends his regards. He says he understands."

We ended the call and I leaned back. I thought about how my life would change now. Right now, my social life revolved around the business. Many of my acquaintances would now lose interest in me. That could not be helped. I shrugged. My real friends would stay. I grabbed my phone and punched in Brenda-Lee's number. She picked it up right away.

"Hi, Ricky! What's up?”

“Hey, Brenda! How’s the student life?”

“It’s good to be back. They gave me some trouble over the amount of time I was away, but my performing arts professor gave me extra credits for shooting a movie when I explained. I’ll manage. How are you?”

“Retired. I sent out emails today that I’m not available anymore. I had a shoot this morning with Gina and some juiced-up bonehead and I realized how sick I am of this stuff. All I have to do now is figure out what I’m going to do with my life.”

“That’s… great? I mean, no throwing stones from me, but that business is sick. So, you’re going to be a lawyer?”

“I’ll think about it. Maybe I’m going to help Floyd and Jean with the post production.”

“That’s not going to last long.”

“Yeah, I know. This was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I have no plans, and I don’t want to rush into anything.”

“Okay, you’re right. What about Charlie’s apartment? Anybody wanting to lease it?”

“Got a few people who are interested, but I haven’t met them yet. We have to weed out the wannabes who can’t afford the place.”

“Thanks, Rick! I really appreciate your help.”

“De nada! It’s what friends are for. I’ll be asking for a security deposit to find out who really has the means to rent it.”

“Whatever you think, Rick. I trust you.”

“I’ll get you a good deal. How’s Xasha?”

Brenda’s giggle filled my ear. “In love! You know she went to that friend of her’s wedding, Dolores something…”

“Good old Dolly Darling!” I chuckled.

“Yeah, well, Alex fell in love with Dolores’s brother. She showed me pictures. He’s huge, like 6’6”, and he’s going to college. Agricultural Engineering of all things. The family has a turkey farm, and he’ll take over.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me? Xasha and a farm boy?”

“Yup! Anyway, she’s staying here. She’s got some credits from her old college, so she can start as a junior. She wants to become a speech therapist, can you imagine?”

I had to laugh. “She was always good at anything oral, but she’s going to make the boys stutter even worse!”

“That’s my take too. I like her. She’s a great friend.”

“Yeah, she’s a good person. I hope her farm boy makes her happy.”

We talked some more about stuff from our lives before we ended. I felt good afterwards. I liked talking to the kid. She was cute, she was smart, and she was gutsy. Maybe… Get a grip, Rick! No way I could even think of starting something with her. She was a good girl, and I may have stopped shooting smut, but those flicks would be on the ‘net for eternity.

—————

Over the next days, I took stock of my life and my finances. I was thirty-three, in good health and shape. I could finish a law degree in a matter of months. I had kept my money together over the years. Not that I had been tight-fisted, but I had no vices worth mentioning. I owned the place where I lived and I would make the last mortgage payment in a few months. Apart from that, I had a nice, diversified stock portfolio that was performing well and savings to the tune of 60 k. With no rent to pay, I could make that last for three years, without touching the stock. The apartment was also easily worth over 400k, so there were no worries. If nothing else, fucking for a living had paid off for me.

I also intensified my efforts to find a tenant for Charlie’s apartment. Not that Brenda needed cash. She had access to that other bank account which was mine in name, but had belonged to Charlie. Having the apartment sit empty made no sense, however. Neither did selling it. If Brenda was serious about performing arts or being a writer, a base in LA would come in handily.

The first two prospects were busts. One was griping over the lease before she even set foot into the place and I told her to get lost. The second was giving everything a close inspection and then demanded improvements. Like new faucets and sinks, the way she had seen them in a movie. She was working for a Rodeo Drive women’s clothier and she was convinced that her shit did not stink. I told her I’d keep her in mind and sent her on her way.

Number 3 was a late thirtyish woman with an unruly mop of dark blonde hair. She was wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses and nerdy clothing. Still, she was a producer at a cable TV production company where she made 180 k per year. She sounded down-to-earth though and she had no problems with a security payment. In short, after 50 minutes, we shook hands over the deal. She even invited me to have dinner with her at her favorite Italian place, and having really nothing better to do with my evening, I agreed.

Dinner was nice. Sharon — Sharon Feinman — was great company. She regaled me with stories from her job, producing sitcoms for cable networks. In turn, I let it slip that I had worked in porn for close to ten years. She was not put off, but asked me a lot of questions. After dessert, while we sipped a wonderful cappuccino, she finally let the cat out of the bag.

“Rick, there’s a reason why I’m interested in you,” she stated.

Okay, she had a fantasy of bedding a porn actor. I really was not hot for this, and I already compiled a number of excuses when she grinned.

“You wish! Sorry, buster, but I swing the other way. No, it’s about work. We have this new sitcom. It’s called Utilities Included. It’s about a stick-in-the-mud girl from London who comes to LA to join a law firm. She’s only a junior associate, so she decides to room with two other lawyer girls. She picks up the lease for a four-bedroom in Malibu, but then her roomies bail on her. She can’t afford the house by herself and has to sublet. The sitcom is about the weird people she has to interview and even take in as roomies.”

“So?” I asked, thinking that this might just be a great plot.

“So I’m thinking, she should meet a genuine male porn star interviewing to be her roomy. I can see her being completely prissy and embarrassed, and him being a cool guy. A cool guy, just like you,” she ended, dangling a bait. I took it.

“You want me to do a cameo?”

“Guest star,” she corrected. “A whole episode. Lots of dialogue. Would you like to try?”

“You’re kidding,” was my response, but she shook her head.

“Dead serious. Rick, don’t tell me you’re camera-shy!”

I shrugged. You lose your hangups pretty quickly when you have to wave your dick into a camera for a living.

“See! It’s two or three days of shooting, and maybe an afternoon of voice dubbing in post production. Are you good with dialogue?”

I snorted. “What dialogue? ‘Oh, Baby! You’re so tight!’ Yeah, I can handle that. Real dialogue I have no clue. Does it pay?”

“Guest starring does. The usual would be 4 K for three days of shooting. Think about it! You could finally call yourself an actor!” We both laughed over this. “Seriously, I think you would be great. Do you have an agent?”

I had to laugh. Agents were bad in the mainstream business; in porn they were just pimps.

“No, no agent. I usually handle that stuff myself, but I’ll ask a friend to help.”

She nodded and put her hand on my arm. “Please, think about it and let me know!”

—————

Three weeks later I showed up at the studio. I had received and studied the script (there is a first time for everything!), and now I was ready for my mainstream debut. I spent almost an hour in make up, also a first for me. Sure, the girls get primped for a scene, but for male performers a bit of powder on the nose is enough. For the first time, I met the leading lady, Jennifer Saint David. That was her real name, by the way. She was English, with an accent to match (I know, the English speak English; we are the ones with the accent) and she was as arrogant as her character. I didn’t let that faze me. I’ve been shown cold shoulders for a dozen years and I’ve grown a thick skin.

The first scene we shot was with me coming to the house to ask if she’s already decided to let me room with her, something from late in the episode.

 

Ricky: Hi, Pris! You look good enough to eat!

Priscilla: Oh, it’s you. How can I help you?

Ricky: No, no! How can I help you?

Priscilla: Perhaps by removing yourself? You do not really believe that I would let you move in, do you?

Ricky: Aw, Sweet Cheeks, why on earth not? I’m house trained, I have a steady income, and my life style is ascetic. Plus, I won’t ever ogle you, come on to you or otherwise make an ass of myself.

Priscilla: Hah! As if!

Ricky: Listen, Sweet Cheeks! I spend all my day looking at gorgeous chicks, naked chicks. The last thing I want to see after work is more tits and ass. You’re not my type anyway.

Priscilla: I should hope not! I’m not a slut after all!

Ricky (chuckles): I take it you didn’t consider me as a roomy?

Priscilla: I’d rather take in Charles Manson!”

Ricky (grins): Oh, you’re one of those. That’s why you’re a lawyer? To meet bad ass dudes? Maybe reform them?

Priscilla: Certainly not! That was a figure of speech!

Ricky: Whatever you say, Sweet Cheeks!

Priscilla: Besides, what you do to those women…

Ricky: Oh! So you did some research?

Priscilla: I did not! Why am I even answering?

Ricky: ‘Cause you’re flustered, Sweetie. I hope you enjoyed watching me on video. Have a nice day!

Ricky: (turns and leaves)

Priscilla: The gall!

 

With that I turned and left her standing. I loosened my shoulders a bit after the intense two minutes and looked at the director, Jimmy Bartlett. He grinned at me and then at Jennifer.

“Great job, you two! Jenn, you’re a marvel. Rick, you nailed it! You guys are great together. Lisbeth, darling, do we have a take?”

“Looked great to me,” his assistant nodded. “Herman?”

The camera operator nodded. “It’s in the box, and it looked great.”

Jimmy was all smiles. “Okay, have a coffee, you two, while we change the set. Rick, we’ll do the bathroom scene next.”

Okay, that would mean me in a solo scene during my first “audition” with Jennifer. I had to go to the bathroom, but I snoop around in her stuff while in there. I could do that.

—————

Three days later, the episode was in the bag, the check was in my bank, and I was relaxing at home. Sharon had even hinted that there might be a chance for my character to pop up again in a later episode, to annoy and fluster the Priscilla character. It sounded like a fun thing to pop up in a sitcom from time to time, even if it was only cable.

I had called Brenda-Lee and alerted her to my impending stardom, only to get razzed by her. That did not last long though. She called me back a few hours later and asked for a favor. Seems she needed an internship for her Creative Writing major and I was to ask her tenant, Sharon, if there was an opening.

That was why I was dialing Sharon’s number. The call was routed to her cellphone, but she answered after the second ring.

“Hi, Rick!” She had caller ID of course.

“Hi, Sharon! Just a short question if you have a spare minute.”

“Shoot!”

“Okay. A good friend of mine is a college junior up in Eureka. Her major is creative writing, and I am to ask if there’s a chance for her to intern on your staff. She has some experience with writing and acting. She wrote much of the script for our little documentary and played Charlie.”

“Charlie’s sister?”

“Yes. Brenda-Lee Hellstrøm. She is a bright girl and a good worker.”

“Hell, why not? You say she can write?”

“At least in my opinion. She’s also your landlady,” I added helpfully.

“Okay. You have me convinced,” Sharon laughed. “Give me her e-mail contact and I’ll arrange a Skype interview with her. That reminds me, how far are you guys with your little documentary?”

“Floyd and Jean finished the rough edit. We still have to add sound effects and the voice-overs. Two weeks if we press it.”

“Would you guys consider giving us a viewing? I talked to my boss about it, and it sounds like something we might want to show. I’m assuming you’re not aiming for a theatrical release?”

“Ha-ha! Hell, we are willing to post it on YouTube, but it would be nice to recoup some of the production costs. You better set this up with Floyd though. He’s the producer. He, Jean and I bankrolled the thing.”

“How do I contact him?”

“Floyd Pearsons. I’ll mail you his contact information. He owns Starstruck Productions.”

“That sounds good. You think Charlie Hell’s father will raise a stink?”

I had told Sharon a little about the story behind the documentary.

“Not if he’s smart, so yes,” I answered snarkily.

Sharon giggled. “Yeah, I know the type. Fire and brimstone. Legal will want to have a look at your documentation and sources.”

“Floyd was very thorough to have everything documented properly. That should be no problem. Can I call him to let him know you’re interested?”

“Sure. That will make things less awkward when I’ll call him. Look, Rick, I’ve got another appointment in five minutes. It was good talking to you. I’m also to tell you that the brass loved the episode with you in it. There may be a small recurring role for you, but that’s not decided yet. Love ya!”

—————

The brass may have liked the episode with me on it, but more importantly, the viewers loved it. The social networks picked up on it, and the buzz increased. Not three weeks after the episode was shown on the West Coast cable channels, I got a call-back.

This time, I was to run into Priscilla while shopping. She is being snarky to me, but then discovers at the check out that she has maxed out her credit card. She’s low on cash too, but she really needs the tampons in her shopping cart. She’s embarrassed as hell, but Ricky slips her a Twenty without anybody seeing it, and she can make the purchase. Once outside in the parking lot, she thanks him profusely and promises to pay him back the next day. She then asks where she can find him and he tells her that he doesn’t know where he’ll crash in the next few days. She confesses that she has not found a new house mate yet, and then she offers him to sleep in a free room. Ricky accepts, and that is the end of the episode.

This was definitely leading to more I thought, and after we shot our scene, the producers gave me the good news that they planned on giving me a recurring guest star slot as Priscilla’s embarrassing house mate. It was all fun for me and I accepted. What really shocked me was that Jennifer, the lead actress, gave me a warm hug.

“Welcome! This is going to be fun!”

Okay, I got it. She was an actress, and during our first shooting she was staying in character. I’m not an actor, and she could read me like an open book.

“Fooled you, huh? I thought you were brilliant in our last episode together. Can you grow a moustache by the way?”

“Huh?” That’s me, Mister Lightning Wit.

“A snot catcher, you know? Hair on your upper lip?”

I had to laugh. “I know the word moustache. I just don’t know why anybody would want me to grow one.”

“Easy. Sharon says you look almost like Tom Selleck in Magnum, PI. I watched an episode, and she’s right. That would be so cool!”

A moustache?

“I don’t know. I’ve never had one,” I hedged.

“No problem. Let’s find out.”

Ten minutes later, I was sporting a bushy moustache, courtesy of the make-up people. I thought I looked ridiculous, but the female cast members and writers and production assistants thought it looked great. Ookayyy. It just looked as if I had to let it grow.

Over the next two weeks I went to the studio on a daily basis. The writers were not quite sure how to develop my character and they wanted my input. Two of the brave souls even talked me into taking them to one of Floyd’s shoots. They kept in the background and observed while I explained the mechanisms of the business. They talked to Floyd as well. In the next morning, we talked some more but they still had no feel for the character. Finally, Sharon settled the issue. She’d spoken to Brenda-Lee on Skype and had seen a few samples of her writing. The staff writers would write the script for the episodes where I was appearing, but without my lines. Then Brenda and I would give it a shot to get it authentic and return it to the authors. Brenda and I would get writing credits and Brenda would get paid. Not much, but enough to make it worth her while. Plus, Sharon would sign off on the internship reference Brenda needed. A sweet deal all around as far as I saw it.

Over the next three months, I shot another five episodes for a total of seven out of twenty-three. More importantly, Sharon’s bosses were talking a second season for the show. By May we were negotiating for a spot on the regular cast. Floyd appointed himself my agent and got me a $9,500 per episode deal. Not bad if you figured twenty-three episodes, even if Floyd and the IRS took their cuts.

Then, in late June, The Short Life of Charlie Hell, as we had named it, ran on the cable network. They even did some advertising for it during the week before, and over 40,000 customers supposedly watched the first run. The deal Floyd had made with the cable network gave us $12,000 for the first run and $8,000 for every successive showing. In total, they ran it 5 times, meaning $44,000. Another cable outfit from New York got wind of it and paid Floyd a nice $70,000 for five runs. Things picked up from there, and by early September, our little documentary had been shown on cable in twenty states, leaving us with gross earnings of over $2.1 million. Everybody involved was invited for a big party by Floyd. Between Floyd, Jean, myself and Brenda we split 1.6 million, netting me a cool 250 Grand. Brenda received 170 Grand for providing the rights to Charlie’s and her story. Her education was in the bag. We also split a half million equally between the cast and the production team.

Xasha showed at the party with the country bumpkin from Montana she had met at her friend's wedding. The wedding had been Dolores Jorgensen’s, a girl I’d initiated into the business. Dolores had met with bad luck a few years back, getting into an ugly situation with some sleazy types and she ended up doing a stint in a Maryland pen for killing the producer who had her violated on his set. It was a bit convoluted according to Xasha, but Dolores made it through her prison term and her parole okay, and of all people, she’d married her parole officer! Weird stuff! Xasha’s squeeze was in fact Dolores’s younger brother, and she was serious about the guy.

Two weeks after a Kansas-based cable network showed the documentary, Floyd received a cease-and-desist order from a shyster out of Hornville signed by one Judge Peter Raymond. Floyd's lawyer sent a curt reply pointing out that Judge Raymond had no jurisdiction over a California production company and telling the shyster to pound sand.

Two weeks later, Floyd was served with a lawsuit filed against us on Hellstrøm's behalf for defamation of character, slander, libel and unauthorized use of his name. He wanted two million dollars and the destruction of all copies of the documentary. Plaintiff's attorney of record was some ambulance chaser out of South LA. We met at Floyd's attorney's office and planned the defense strategy. We all wanted this to go to court, so Floyd's lawyer sent a "see you in court" reply to the shyster.

We all fronted some cash so that Charlie's diary was examined by a graphologist to ascertain the authorship. We also gave the news to the Krugers and asked them to hold themselves ready for a court appearance. They agreed and promised to show for a trial. Brenda-Lee gave a sworn affidavit detailing the abuse she had suffered before making her escape.

Floyd also held a press conference making the lawsuit public and promising that Starstruck Productions would back up any allegations made in the documentary by physical evidence and by witness testimony. Of course, Sharon's cable network made a big story of it in its evening news, scheduling another showing of the documentary in the 10:00 pm time slot the same evening. Other channels followed after a day, smelling a juicy story, and three days later, the bigger newspapers picked it up.

A week later, we had a preliminary hearing over the injunction demanded by Hellstrøm's attorney. We produced Karen Kruger and Brenda-Lee's affidavits to corroborate the allegations made in the documentary. The judge read through the affidavits and roundly denied issuing an injunction. However, she made time in her schedule to move the trial ahead, making it clear to the attorney that she would expect plaintiff to show in person. Obviously, that came unexpected to the shyster. He hemmed and hawed, claiming that his client could not afford the travel being a modest man of the cloth, but the judge was adamant. She was a smart cookie and well aware that this trial was not about slander; it was about the repeated rape of two minors, one of them a notorious adult performer, by their father. She also knew that this could develop into a high profile case with her in the driver seat, and she was ambitious enough not to let the opportunity pass to parade Hellstrøm before the press.

Alas, two days later, the lawsuit was withdrawn. Hellstrøm did not dare to appear in a California court. It was disappointing for us, but Floyd called in another press conference explaining how plaintiff had backed off, essentially admitting his crimes.

Sharon's cable network invited Floyd and Brenda-Lee for a short interview in which Brenda-Lee reiterated her affidavit and her allegations. The producers had another ace in their sleeves when they cut to an interview with a high-profile lawyer from Philadelphia. Ms. Maureen Darling of Stansfield, Lipton & Croft, Attorneys at Law, proclaimed that her client, Ms. Eileen O'Bannon, formerly of Hornville, KS, had given an affidavit alleging that her father and the Reverend Hellstrøm had jointly abused her sexually in at least seven instances. Ms. O'Bannon was willing to testify in a court of law as Ms. Darling asserted in a calm voice.

Wow! I had not known that, but shortly after the broadcast, Sharon called me to explain things. The young woman had escaped to Philadelphia and she had seen the documentary on cable while staying with a friendly soul. She had then contacted the lawyer and given an affidavit.

Things snowballed from there. Obviously, the good people of Kansas were asking their government what the ever-living fuck was happening in Hornville. In time-honored fashion, the State Attorney General held a press conference announcing an immediate investigation into the allegations against Hellstrøm, the sheriff's department and other leading citizens. He was surprised and dismayed over the events and wanted the people to know that their government was reacting quickly and decisively.

That evening, I got a phone call from Jack Turner, the owner of that Hornville diner where we had filmed. He was happily drunk when he called and sent his thanks and regards to us all. He also told me that he would not visit California soon, and if he ever did, it would not be to see adult performers. Jack had a girlfriend!

4 - Stud Muffin

I was back in the middle of shooting the second season of Utilities Included. Brenda came down to LA twice a month to perform her magic on the scripts. She had a standing offer to join the writing staff once she graduated next summer, and she was of a mind to accept.

Jennifer and I developed quite a good chemistry with each other, and the viewers loved the show. I actually had to hire a part time publicist to handle my fan mail and interview requests. Hilarious! I received about 200-300 emails per week from faithful viewers of the show and even from personal fans. Quite a few of the latter were gay folks; not exactly my personal target group, but true admirers. We developed about twenty standard reply texts to cover the various types of fan mail, and my publicist, Toby, spent two hours every day telling the fans how much I appreciated them.

Now in its second year, the show was shown by a few other cable networks all over the country, creating a growing, nationwide fanbase for us. Of course, Jennifer was the leading lady, and she made talk show appearances wherever the show was being offered. Still, some talk show hosts actually wanted to have me on their shows, mostly in the big urban markets on the East Coast. Mind you, these were not network late night shows but rather cable talk shows, but we were getting a bit of a name.

Shooting the episodes was a hoot most of the time. I was playing an exaggerated version of my adult performer persona, and it came easy enough to me. We shot four days every week, enough to be ahead of the broadcasting by three weeks. I was in a supporting role, meaning that only thirty percent of the scenes were with me in them. That gave me lots of opportunities to watch the proceedings from the sidelines, and it was educating. I could see myself doing mainstream acting for a few years, or for as long as I had fun, when my past caught up with me, sort of.

It was early December and we had just wrapped up the Christmas episode. I was sitting in my tiny dressing room wiping off the make up and generally getting ready for leaving, when Sharon stuck her head in.

"Umh, Ricky, can you come to the office? We have an issue that needs discussing."

I looked at her curiously. "Sure. What's up?"

She shook her head, obviously distressed. "Let's go over. This concerns us all."

Fred Myerson was the head of production. He had treated me okay so far, but just so. Jennifer was also there. I looked at her and she shrugged.

Myerson cleared his throat. "Guys, this is good news and bad news. Good news first. We have an offer for the show from a network, a national network."

"NBS?" I asked, knowing that their lineup was haemorrhaging viewers.

Fred nodded. "Yeah. We can get the ten pm slot on Mondays."

"That's sweet, isn't it?" I asked innocently.

Jennifer had better instincts. "Don't tell me they have problems with Ricky!" she challenged. "This was a third-rate show before he joined. He's getting almost as much fan mail as me. Without him, NBS wouldn’t even have us on their radar.”

Fred winced. "I know. I told them. You see, they're owned by Brett Monahan. He's a family values guy. He wants the show, but we need to tone down the racy stuff. And…" he swallowed, "he doesn't want Ricky on the show."

"Well, then, maybe he doesn't want me on the show either," Jennifer snapped. "I have veto rights for the supporting cast by the way. Remember?"

I did not know that and I realized that Jennifer must have backed me all the time. This would be her break, though. Before my brain could interfere, my mouth opened and the words came out.

"Jenn, don't! You want that break and you deserve it. I'm not that important. You're the star. They will probably replace me with somebody established, right, Fred?"

Fred looked unhappy. "You won't like it. It's Monahan's stepson, Hugh Dumont."

"Is he out again?" Sharon asked. "Last time I heard he was doing time for DUI."

Fred shrugged. "He's out again. One condition was regular employment. I guess that's why Monahan wants our show."

"I can veto him," Jennifer maintained.

Fred sighed. "No, you can't. You have veto rights for supporting cast members, but not for co-stars."

I was afraid Jennifer would have an aneurism. Her eyes bugged out and an unhealthy red complexion spread from her face down to her neckline.

"Co-star?" she managed to say.

"Part of the deal to get him out of stir, Jennifer," Fred explained. "Oh, and Ricky, I've been authorized to buy out the remainder of your contract. You'll make out like a robber."

I calculated quickly. There were 12 more episodes to shoot, $114,000 according to my contract.

"So I get the rest of my pay, 114 k?"