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Authors: Starbuck O'Dwyer
Tags: Fiction
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it’s any consolation, you’re not the only one with problems.”
“Really? You mean your life’s not all sunshine and virgins?”
Cal shook his head no.
“So, what’s the matter?”
“You name it. I’ve got a video dominatrix with repetitive stress disorder, two self-love artists with carpal tunnel syndrome and our ISP keeps crashing.”
“What’s an ISP?”
“Internet service provider.”
“My heart’s bleeding for you.”
“Lately, I keep having this nightmare that Jenny finds out what I do for a living.”
“Eventually she’s going to.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why don’t you just tell her? Get it over with.”
“I should. I know I should. I’ve just got to do it, right?”
“Yes. Tell her tonight.”
“I’m going to. Tonight’s the night. Tonight is it. No more delay. I’m going to pull her aside in the bedroom and say, ‘Jen, I’m part of the adult services industry.’ It won’t be so bad.”
“It won’t be bad at all.”
“This is as good a time as any, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“I know.”
“You’re not going to do it, are you?”
“Not a chance. She’d kill me.”
Out in the parking lot, it was difficult not to notice Cal’s new car.
“How do you like it?”
“Is that the new Jag?”
“Yes it is. Gorgeous, don’t you think?”
“It’s okay,” I replied halfheartedly, knowing it would piss him off.
“Okay? You’re high. You love it.”
“Must have sold a lot of jam to get that.”
Cal smiled at me.
“You’d be amazed. It’s the alternative spread today.”
I had mixed feelings about Cal’s success. I was happy for him, of course. He was making a ton of dough and hadn’t become some raging asshole because of it. He also shared his financial success every chance he got and was the only friend I had who would call up with a spare ticket to the Super Bowl or Final Four. Still, years earlier, he offered me the chance to go into business with him and I said no. At the time, I considered a trip into the void of the porn industry dishonorable and beneath me. I was going to make my mark aboveboard in something legitimate and respectable. Then something unexpected happened. The gap between what he did and what I did narrowed, as sex became the primary sales vehicle in every industry including fast food, particularly for Tailburger. Now the difference between our career paths was as negligible as a bikini top. On or off? In hindsight, the choice seemed obvious.
7
Sunday’s SERMON
Muffet Meaney, SERMON’s executive director, was known in our business as the “Beef Bitch” for her self-righteous stand on everything involving steers and bovines. Because of the potential lawsuit Tailburger was facing, I was on my way back to Washington, D.C., to try to reason with this woman whom I’d met briefly two years before when we each testified before a Senate subcommittee about the effect of steroids on cattle. She believed they were getting too much, while I naturally held a more permissive view on the topic. To this day, whenever I get a scrawny piece of meat, I think of her.
After my customary fit of claustrophobia, I settled into my seat at the back of the plane (no first class for this executive) and started the Mott the Hoople CD residing in my Sony. “Thank God, they’ve remastered the classics,” I thought as I slipped my headset on and settled in for the two-hour trip. I didn’t know why Ethan couldn’t appreciate the great music of the Nixon years. It was still speaking to people three decades later.
Baffled by the generation gap, I used the flight time to prepare for the next morning’s meeting. Ned, Ted and Fred gave me the Operation Tenderize surveillance dossier to educate me about Meaney’s soft spots. She lived alone, spent most of her time working for SERMON and indulged her taste for voyeurism by watching
America’s Most Wanted
and the
Antiques Roadshow.
She voted for Carter in ’76
and
’80, Mondale in ’84,
“Really? You mean your life’s not all sunshine and virgins?”
Cal shook his head no.
“So, what’s the matter?”
“You name it. I’ve got a video dominatrix with repetitive stress disorder, two self-love artists with carpal tunnel syndrome and our ISP keeps crashing.”
“What’s an ISP?”
“Internet service provider.”
“My heart’s bleeding for you.”
“Lately, I keep having this nightmare that Jenny finds out what I do for a living.”
“Eventually she’s going to.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why don’t you just tell her? Get it over with.”
“I should. I know I should. I’ve just got to do it, right?”
“Yes. Tell her tonight.”
“I’m going to. Tonight’s the night. Tonight is it. No more delay. I’m going to pull her aside in the bedroom and say, ‘Jen, I’m part of the adult services industry.’ It won’t be so bad.”
“It won’t be bad at all.”
“This is as good a time as any, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“I know.”
“You’re not going to do it, are you?”
“Not a chance. She’d kill me.”
Out in the parking lot, it was difficult not to notice Cal’s new car.
“How do you like it?”
“Is that the new Jag?”
“Yes it is. Gorgeous, don’t you think?”
“It’s okay,” I replied halfheartedly, knowing it would piss him off.
“Okay? You’re high. You love it.”
“Must have sold a lot of jam to get that.”
Cal smiled at me.
“You’d be amazed. It’s the alternative spread today.”
I had mixed feelings about Cal’s success. I was happy for him, of course. He was making a ton of dough and hadn’t become some raging asshole because of it. He also shared his financial success every chance he got and was the only friend I had who would call up with a spare ticket to the Super Bowl or Final Four. Still, years earlier, he offered me the chance to go into business with him and I said no. At the time, I considered a trip into the void of the porn industry dishonorable and beneath me. I was going to make my mark aboveboard in something legitimate and respectable. Then something unexpected happened. The gap between what he did and what I did narrowed, as sex became the primary sales vehicle in every industry including fast food, particularly for Tailburger. Now the difference between our career paths was as negligible as a bikini top. On or off? In hindsight, the choice seemed obvious.
7
Sunday’s SERMON
Muffet Meaney, SERMON’s executive director, was known in our business as the “Beef Bitch” for her self-righteous stand on everything involving steers and bovines. Because of the potential lawsuit Tailburger was facing, I was on my way back to Washington, D.C., to try to reason with this woman whom I’d met briefly two years before when we each testified before a Senate subcommittee about the effect of steroids on cattle. She believed they were getting too much, while I naturally held a more permissive view on the topic. To this day, whenever I get a scrawny piece of meat, I think of her.
After my customary fit of claustrophobia, I settled into my seat at the back of the plane (no first class for this executive) and started the Mott the Hoople CD residing in my Sony. “Thank God, they’ve remastered the classics,” I thought as I slipped my headset on and settled in for the two-hour trip. I didn’t know why Ethan couldn’t appreciate the great music of the Nixon years. It was still speaking to people three decades later.
Baffled by the generation gap, I used the flight time to prepare for the next morning’s meeting. Ned, Ted and Fred gave me the Operation Tenderize surveillance dossier to educate me about Meaney’s soft spots. She lived alone, spent most of her time working for SERMON and indulged her taste for voyeurism by watching
America’s Most Wanted
and the
Antiques Roadshow.
She voted for Carter in ’76
and
’80, Mondale in ’84,
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