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Authors: Stephen Elliott
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second room where there’s an eight-foot chain web against one wall, a leather bed, and a short, padded spanking bench with knee rests.
“This is a good place,” the madam says. “As long as there aren’t any customers. If a client comes he’ll have to walk right through here to get to any of the other rooms.”
“Are you ready?” she asks, running her fingers inside my shirt and pinching my nipples with her long nails.
“Yes,” I say. It’s too late to say anything else, and anyway, it feels good. I don’t really want to know what’s going to happen.
The house madam leaves and I take my clothes off and the woman from Culver City fastens leather cuffs around my ankles, latching a spreader bar to them to keep my legs forced apart. She fastens nipple clamps with weights on the ends, pushes me over the bed, and slides inside me with her strap-on. I’m wearing a rubber mask and a blindfold so I can’t see her boyfriend moving behind us with the camera. She leans over me, one hand gripping my throat and the other pressing down my back. This is fine, I think. I’ll just stay like this. When the filming is over and I’m getting dressed, the boyfriend offers me a can of energy cola. “You were great,” he says. “We couldn’t ask for a better victim.”
It’s not the first time I’ve been photographed nude, but it’s the first video. When I was twenty-one and working as a stripper in Chicago, I was asked to make a porn. I made a demo, which consisted of masturbating while the director shot pictures with a small Kodak. But then I decided I didn’t want to be in the film. I thought I might regret it. Now I know I wouldn’t have regretted it. It wouldn’t have meant anything.
At the time I was just out of college and didn’t know what to do. In college I was a history major. I started hanging out at a club called Berlin, flirting with the bartenders and the cocktail servers. I had nowhere to go but I liked to dance. One night the bartender asked me to be in a fashion show. I walked the runway in striped shorts with orange straps across my shoulders, moving as slowly as I could, basking in the glow of the runner lights. A crowd of club-goers gathered along the sides and stretched their arms toward my ankles. I passed through the mesh curtains into the dressing room and asked if I could go again.
“You are so vain,” the bartender said, patting my ass.
My stripper year was also my heroin year, when I headed with my friends to the West Side, through the remnants of the ’68 riots, to pick up bundles from men on lawn chairs in front of abandoned lots.
At the same time I was just starting film school, and getting along better with my father. I would hang out at his house and we would tell each other stories, things that had nothing to do with my childhood. We never discussed what led to me leaving home so young and the state taking custody. We had different interpretations of what happened and if we got anywhere near the subject it felt like our fragile reconciliation wouldn’t survive. My father would compliment me, tell me how much better my work was than the other film students. “They don’t understand narrative,” he said. “Most people don’t know how to tell a story.” He was proud of me, but not for working hard. Working hard was for suckers. He thought I had talents that other people didn’t, talents that we shared. I soaked up his compliments but didn’t trust him enough to share my feelings. I knew that if I admitted any vulnerability, someday he would use it against me. It was a feature of his rage. When he was angry he would grasp for whatever meant the most to you and destroy it. When I was with him I would tell him how well everything was going, how happy my life was, and when I left I replayed his compliments in my mind as if they were on a cassette and I was wearing invisible headphones.
One day I came over and my father was limping, his body twisting at right angles, his
“This is a good place,” the madam says. “As long as there aren’t any customers. If a client comes he’ll have to walk right through here to get to any of the other rooms.”
“Are you ready?” she asks, running her fingers inside my shirt and pinching my nipples with her long nails.
“Yes,” I say. It’s too late to say anything else, and anyway, it feels good. I don’t really want to know what’s going to happen.
The house madam leaves and I take my clothes off and the woman from Culver City fastens leather cuffs around my ankles, latching a spreader bar to them to keep my legs forced apart. She fastens nipple clamps with weights on the ends, pushes me over the bed, and slides inside me with her strap-on. I’m wearing a rubber mask and a blindfold so I can’t see her boyfriend moving behind us with the camera. She leans over me, one hand gripping my throat and the other pressing down my back. This is fine, I think. I’ll just stay like this. When the filming is over and I’m getting dressed, the boyfriend offers me a can of energy cola. “You were great,” he says. “We couldn’t ask for a better victim.”
It’s not the first time I’ve been photographed nude, but it’s the first video. When I was twenty-one and working as a stripper in Chicago, I was asked to make a porn. I made a demo, which consisted of masturbating while the director shot pictures with a small Kodak. But then I decided I didn’t want to be in the film. I thought I might regret it. Now I know I wouldn’t have regretted it. It wouldn’t have meant anything.
At the time I was just out of college and didn’t know what to do. In college I was a history major. I started hanging out at a club called Berlin, flirting with the bartenders and the cocktail servers. I had nowhere to go but I liked to dance. One night the bartender asked me to be in a fashion show. I walked the runway in striped shorts with orange straps across my shoulders, moving as slowly as I could, basking in the glow of the runner lights. A crowd of club-goers gathered along the sides and stretched their arms toward my ankles. I passed through the mesh curtains into the dressing room and asked if I could go again.
“You are so vain,” the bartender said, patting my ass.
My stripper year was also my heroin year, when I headed with my friends to the West Side, through the remnants of the ’68 riots, to pick up bundles from men on lawn chairs in front of abandoned lots.
At the same time I was just starting film school, and getting along better with my father. I would hang out at his house and we would tell each other stories, things that had nothing to do with my childhood. We never discussed what led to me leaving home so young and the state taking custody. We had different interpretations of what happened and if we got anywhere near the subject it felt like our fragile reconciliation wouldn’t survive. My father would compliment me, tell me how much better my work was than the other film students. “They don’t understand narrative,” he said. “Most people don’t know how to tell a story.” He was proud of me, but not for working hard. Working hard was for suckers. He thought I had talents that other people didn’t, talents that we shared. I soaked up his compliments but didn’t trust him enough to share my feelings. I knew that if I admitted any vulnerability, someday he would use it against me. It was a feature of his rage. When he was angry he would grasp for whatever meant the most to you and destroy it. When I was with him I would tell him how well everything was going, how happy my life was, and when I left I replayed his compliments in my mind as if they were on a cassette and I was wearing invisible headphones.
One day I came over and my father was limping, his body twisting at right angles, his
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