Lollipop

A woman that looks like a girl is a useful commodity in the adult industry. join Lollipop as she goes on the gig to end all gigs-one you literally need guts to complete.

She impressed the man at the agency. Although she was nearing her mid twenties she'd pass for less than sixteen at a push, if the lighting was tasteful. Perfect for the Loving Lolita series, she was obviously legal; nevertheless she possessed sufficient charm to satiate the sweetest of appetites, and she didn't have the risibility factor of the blowsy old tarts in their thirties swishing around in gym slips. She's a little flower, a red red rose. This he tells her. Sucking on lollipops. Petite and mousy.

He'd call her Lollipop, her label for the business.

The guy wasn't what she'd expected. She thought he'd be a greasy sleaze despite what her friend, who turned her onto the guy, had told her. Balding, prime rib of life, lean, gruff voice, tanned, quite posh really, smelled of soap and money.

No, she'd start with pictures. Photography. An afternoon's work, roughly the same pay as a good night at the club, but not as much hard work. And she'd be famous of sorts. That's what she wanted, a fragment of her to live on, and when she was old she could look back and see herself in all her pomp, and when she was old she could look back and see herself in all her pomp, and say, that was me, I was something for a flicker.  Everyone wants to be written up. Of course, there was the other stuff, not whoring because it was all on videotape, art, like, it was strictly optional, that path, no pressure, but that's where the real money lay and sometimes you got to go abroad and got put up in nice hotels, even the divine MM did it, and her friend said it was preferable to f*****g Arabs to pay for the refurbishment of her flat.

They sheeet on the carpet, make a steeenk.

Still, it was preferable to bawdy panto.

Lollipop says maybe probably to the solo photo shoot and minor and a minor possibility of girl on girl softcore but the other, the invitation to join the clitterati…well, a girl can but demurely blush.

Shark teeth and chewing gum.

He is respectable, yes, children and wife gleaming at her from within the boundaries of the silver picture frame. The man is large on respect, or the Big R as he calls it. That is why he left advertising. Lack of. In relation to. Self. Clawing it back. Grand launch title; Jungle Dollies. Black on black.

He says he'll keep her on file. Sometimes they supply their employees to private contractors, every once in a while, every now and then. All above board, catering to the specialist tastes. She'll do some stills, yeah, private stuff, maybe, if it's not too out there, girl on girl, well, at a push, just playing around.

They'll call.

She does the photo sheet. Outdoors in next to nothing, gets the wind up her kipper. Parts them. Photographer a bit fly but treats her like a lady. Gynaecological scrapbook. Thinks of the gas and electric bills. Her child. Maybe going to Harvey Nicks. In clover. Pair of shoes she'd always looked at.

 

            "You don't need to know the man, we, the agency, are merely acting as his intermediary."

"His what?"

"Go between if you like. He tells me what he wants and we all get together and provide him with what he requires."
"It sounds weird."

"I'm not asking you to break bread with him."

"Take bed?"

"It's a crap line. I'm on my mobile."

"So who'll I be working with?"

"A couple of my lads."

"I don't get it, what you want."

"Look, he's a Jap b*****d. They run on a different frequency. I can pass this on, but you're pretty, girly yet feminine, and your body is kinda boyish in a sexy way."

"How much again?"

Two mediocre weeks at the club.

"No sexy stuff?"

"Definitely not, a flash of fur at the most."

"Ok."

"Ok?"

"Ok."

"You'll do it?"

"Sure."

"Sure?"

"Yeah."

"Alright."

 

            They met at a canal side flat. She thought it plush. There wasn't much in it. Furniture from that Swedish place.

"I've seen your portfolio. Your meat's good."

"Thanks," said Lollipop.

"Look, if you want to supplement your income we could do some stills."

There was something brutally forceful behind the short podgy man's semi-detached, quasi-professional manner. His air of menace was offset by a set of ill fitting dentures that clattered when he spoke and a toupee that resembled an expired marmoset on his head. The kid, riding shotgun with the video camera, looked blissed out. Tall, skinny, attractive in a way that had a sell by date. He nodded in and out of the situation. Although she'd done the stills with the photographer she didn't want sex to become part of this shoot.

"No. I don't think I'd project sexiness today. I got an headache."

The photographer had been big on Projection, especially when she opened her p***y lips from behind.

"Hey, not many girls pass up a freebie referral. Anyway, get it out your head we're trying to work in a sex angle. You'll do three years in this game and never clap eyes on a c**k."

"So what's the plot."

"Don't be alarmed when I tell you. You have to think of the culture the client comes from. You know, pink cinema, avant-garde torture and all that crap."

Lollipop nodded compliantly. She didn't understand and this bought her acquiescence.

The man turned to the kid.

"Get the stuff from the car."

He threw the kid a set of keys. The kid murmured and left. Lollipop and the man had a stab at conversation.

"Whose is the flat?"

"A dead man's."

"What?"

"He went belly up last week."

"Oh."

"Don't worry. There's two weeks left on the lease. He was a good customer. I liked him. As a mark of respect I'm not moving anyone in till it expires. He always paid in full."

"Any takers?"

"Young married couple. Work in computer admin. Seem pleasant enough."

The kid returned, a sports holdall over his shoulder, lugging a black bin liner.

           

            They took the stills after all my protests. I rang home and my son said we'd been put on incoming calls by the Cable Company. I posed in knickers and bra while the man pretended to stab me with a switchblade. The point was dull but hurt and the spring had been taken out so the blade went into the handle when he stabbed me. They painted me with red syrup what the man said was fake blood. I was meant to look scared but it was funny really. I kept thinking what I'd make my son for his tea and things I could buy for the house.  I know where the money will go. The telly died on us last week and I owe a reconnection fee. So all this was dead money I figured. I hate replacing things when there's so much I need. I noticed the syrup had stained the fat man's hands. Now I'm a dancer and can't afford to look bad so I told them to wash it off. I'm shivering, there's no heating on and its winter. We're in the bathroom and it's cramped. You'll wash for us said the man. I told him to f**k off and he grabbed my arm. He was alright. A gent. I've known worse at the club. The kid sloped off briefly to taker a shot or a snort or whatever and came back peachy. So I'm the star. Be Hollywood, said the man. I phoned the babysitter, told her I'd be late and to drop him off at mum's. I'd settle up the taxi fare next time I saw her.

 

            Lollipop, Kid Spangles and Diamond Dekker do the meat movie. They want to get really gross. Angles are tough in the bathroom. They work from a three-page script typed by the client, a fan of Sagawa. They do the meat with different pieces. In the bin liner is a rancid cornucopia, cow's brain, liver, innards. They wash her in the bath, soap her up with warm water and sponge her rectum and vagina, telling her what the meat is like and how it tastes, reading stiltedly from the script. She doesn't want to get her hair dirty. The kid is taping. She swathes her head in a towel. Diamond Dekker places the cow brain on top of the towel and offal on her tits. Lollipop only just chokes back her revulsion. Blood and guts, on the mirror, in the shower stall, on the plastic mat, everywhere. They throw the animal remains about with gusto. Lollipop, loosened by a joint and belt of vodka, gets into the swing. She emits a bloodcurdling scream. Diamond Dekker, clutching the vodka bottle, doubles up laughing. It's a blast. They mess around, taking turns to hold the VCR and pretend to brutalise her, ballpeen hammer, rusty hacksaw. The laughter refuses to cessate. Dekker swings a reel of intestine above his head. Lollipop has had enough. She's the star, she shines, get this gunk off me she yells. Later sits with hairdryer in hand as Diamond Dekker, stripped off, smears blood on his face, squeezes the cow heart, leers into camera.

 

            We sat around the kitchen table drinking and smoking. Dekker fried up the cow heart and liver in a pan filled with onions and mushrooms and splashed in Worcester sauce. I said I like Worcester sauce crisps. The kid said he preferred Scampi Fries. I played a dual role.

           

Lollipop is doubling up. Changes into a long black coat, Jackie O glasses and headscarf. Diamond and Spangles are sat at the dining table in smoking jackets. Dekker is crossing carving knives and whistling tunelessly.

Kid slurs, "How money you got honey?"

On the silver tray is a mannequin leg shoved full of what looks like undercooked turkey mince in a congealed Bolognese sauce.

"It's desert."

"Bon appetit."

Lollipop slips out of coat, stands shivering and bored in basque, fishnet stockings and suspenders. Sample of guitar breakout from Deep Throat.