So, I accidentally managed to get slightly trafficked last week. I say slightly because I wasn’t TRAFFICKED trafficked–I got out with life, limb, self-respect, and virtue (or whatever shreds of virtue I have left) intact–but my experience definitely verged in the direction of a cautionary tale for all young ladies of the evening.
It all started when, annoyed with the hassle of independence, I decided a paycation in Florida wouldn’t be a bad idea. My friend Severine, who’d also recently quit Dolorous Delights, had gotten in touch with a gentleman who claimed to be a producer of fetish videos down there, and we figured we could have some fun in the sun and make some money while we were at it. What could go wrong?
Eric, the supposed video producer, had us sign a few contracts, then pitched us a couple of video ideas, it was mostly classic corporal stuff and seemed relatively easy, fun, and profitable. I told him I’d head down there for a few days, see how it went, and maybe stay as long as a week if I liked the way his operation was run. When he agreed to reimburse me for my ticket, I decided to go for it, and booked a flight to America’s Penis: the land of alligators and face eaters. I would fly into Miami in two days time.
I was excited! I was going to be a real porn star, but without the publicity; Eric claimed he only made videos for private collectors.