But what if...
I picture Andre going to this basketball camp and getting a scholarship, Lila working extra hours in between taking medication for her frequent bouts of arthritis and heartburn, and me enrolled at UC Berkeley, getting to stroll by Strawberry Creek every day, taking classes from world-famous professors, attending events like football games. Maybe Andre would visit me, and I’d take him to see the men’s team play.
Suddenly, it’s a simple decision.
I pull out the card.
CHAPTER FOUR
This is real.
I lay motionless on the examining table as the woman inspects me between the legs. I pretend I’m getting my annual wellness checkup. This woman inserts a gloved finger into me. It’s uncomfortable, but so is the speculum used by gynecologists.
The woman takes off her gloves and tells me I’m done.
I sit in the reception area of the Pullman Model & Talent Agency, which I half-expected to be located in an old building with no central air and in one of the less savory parts of the city, like the Tenderloin, given the nature of its extracurricular activities. But the office is nicely appointed and the furniture looks new. Headshots of beautiful women and men adorn the walls. I notice the photos of women outnumber the men two to one.
Forty minutes later, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline enters the office. “Virginia, eh? Dan Pullman.”
As I shake his hand, I wonder if I should have provided a fake name instead.
“Can I get you coffee or tea?” he asks.
“Maybe just water,” I answer. He doesn’t come across particularly sleazy, but I’ve only just met him.
He opens a mini fridge and pulls out a bottle of water for me. “So how did you come across my info, Virginia?”
“A co-worker of mine is a model with your agency.”
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
“Um, Sierra.”
He smiles. “Sierra is great. If she were just a few inches taller, she would be working actual modeling gigs.”
He looks me over from head to toe and now the sleaze starts to show. “Nice. I like what I see, Virginia. I think you’ll go for a great sum. You’ve got that innocent girl-next-door vibe. How old are you? Eighteen? I can’t take you unless you’re at least eighteen”
“Twenty-one.”
“You got proof of that?”
“My driver’s license.”
“Good. All you got to do is fill out some paperwork and wait for my call.”
He walks over to a desk and pulls out several sheets of paper. It’s as if I’m applying for representation from his agency.
“Is it true that I’ll be paid as much as twenty thousand dollars?” I ask as I receive the paperwork.
“You have to be chosen by a client first, but I had a model of mine just last week make thirty thousand. She had just turned eighteen. The younger the better. But you look like you can pass for eighteen.”
My stomach turns, and I begin to have second thoughts. Even though Talia said losing one’s virginity is just something to get out of the way, I have the feeling that a woman always remembers her first time. Do I really want my first time to be with a lech who likes jailbait?
“Do I get paid by the client?” I ask.
“They pay the agency, which takes its cut, and you get paid by the agency. Included in the paperwork is the W-9 tax form.”
“How much is the agency’s cut?”