Looking for work, as I am, I’ve determined not to be too proud, or snooty, to at least think about opportunities I come across. So I was quite excited to find the above in the local newsagent’s shop window. It ticked quite a few of my preferred boxes, especially the bit that says ‘Part Time Hours, Full Time Money.’ Yes, I thought, I could do with some of that. ‘No joining fee’ was a plus, too – wise Mr D had obviously saved quite a bit on design and typesetting.
Sadly, or perhaps it’s because I’m English, the sexual element eventually put me off. Sex I like – if they’re honest, who doesn’t? And being paid for same doesn’t particularly make me squeamish or desirous of jumping up and down in moral outrage, or so I thought as I walked home pondering the real meaning of ‘Full Training Given.’
A few years ago I worked on a couple of quite stylish soft porn movies that went out under the name ‘Electric Blue.’ It was fun; the crew and actors were friendly, and my eyes were opened more than once to various … how should I put this … nuances I hadn’t ever considered. Nearing home I weighed the two in my mind: High end London vs Hastings, East Sussex. Eventually, as I put the key in the door, I decided Mr D’s agency, salubrious though it might well be, wasn’t in quite the same league. Besides, if I joined I wouldn’t be filming it … I’d be doing it, and that is a very, very different barrel of eels.
Besides, I’m not sure if Mr D would think I’m staff material. I’d prefer to be wearing skin tight jeans, a silk shirt over a six pack, Gucci shades, and be driving a Cadillac – or whatever the English equivalent is. Also, joining the sex trade in mid-life is bound to bring on a crisis, and that’s a particular crisis I’ve so far managed to avoid.