‘Working girl’ was her nickname for fellow whores who relished sex with men in the face of cameras. My face tightened with worry as I stepped into...the filming room. I noisily shut the door behind me. Fifteen heads quickly reversed, their seething faces scowling at me. “I am so sorry,” I apologized to the director, Kirby, who stroked the tip of his cigar on a glowing flame. “The traffic delayed me. I also had a long way to walk just to chance on a cab.” As the cigarette touched his lips, he. Spreading her naked legs in front of a mirror, she saw not her tight labia and thighs, but the perfect symmetry of a well made miter joint. Her breasts were things that were sometimes useful in holding a plank to work on, sometimes obstructions to her vision. Her fingers were micrometers to measure smoothness, and compare it to her cheeks. Her hair was a way to imagine carvings. And she thought of sex as a well fitting mortise and tenon, not as an animal act. Even semen looked to her like white. More

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