Filthy Dirty Normal, Volume 1 Read online

  Filthy Dirty Normal Volume 1

  Lexi Maxxwell

  EROS | A division of Sterling & Stone

  Contents

  Title Page

  The Wrong Kind of Audition

  Sex with a Stranger

  Hot Party at Amanda's

  About the Author

  © 2017 Lexi Maxxwell. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  Thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help us spread the word.

  For a free ebook and news about upcoming releases, please visit leximaxxwell.com.

  The Wrong Kind of Audition

  Amanda pushed the button for 4F, angry at herself for feeling so intimidated.

  The plate into which the buttons were set was a highly-polished brass. While she waited for 4F (Crush Agency, Ltd) to answer, she pushed and poked at her head of mahogany hair to make sure that everything seemed to be in place. She leaned forward, trying to see if her eyelashes were sufficiently mascaraed and separated. She was peering closely at her own right eye when the speaker crackled. It startled her enough that she smacked her forehead into the buzzer for 6B, which rang.

  “Yes?” came a pleasant male voice.

  “Hi, I’m Amanda Bellings. For….” She realized suddenly that she didn’t remember the agent’s name, and began rummaging in her purse.

  “No worries,” said the voice, as if it could see her. Then she looked up, noticed a small security camera under an eave, and realized it could. “You’re expected,” the voice said before she could find the agent’s card.

  The door clicked. At the exact same moment, office 6B (which she had summoned with her forehead) answered its buzzer and asked her what the hell she wanted. Amanda didn’t answer. She slipped through the door and walked inside.

  The lobby was nice, if sparse. She was on high alert, unable to stop herself from judging every aspect of the place. She’d once gone to a dermatologist’s office when she was thirteen — six years ago now; how time flew — and that lobby had seemed somehow dated in a way she couldn’t put a finger on. The magazines were old. The posters on the wall seemed obsolete. There had been no music in the waiting room, no pleasant chatter of nurses behind the scenes. That doctor had refused to refill her medication because he felt it was unsafe, but the doctor himself had looked like a troll, the room had seemed dirty, and she was glad he wouldn’t work with her because alarms were going off and she just wanted to get out. You could trust lobbies. Lobbies made important first impressions.

  This one said: So far, so good … but not terribly impressive.

  She reminded herself to calm down. The agent had found her. He had found her.

  She’d been out with friends, at a bowling alley, and a well-dressed man had approached her and apologized for being forward. He’d handed her a card, had said that she might have a future in modeling. It was all very fortuitous, because Amanda had been working at a clothing store since graduation and it wasn’t exactly thrilling, and people had been telling her forever, as recently as last week, that she should try and model. She’d always brushed it off, but the idea had begun to work on her. Why not? She was as pretty as any of the women she saw on TV, and she knew how much help they got from hair and makeup and wardrobe. She’d even done a photoshoot a few years ago for a local newspaper’s supplemental section (she was the girl in a stereotypical family; her brother hadn’t been chosen to play her brother in the ad because they didn’t look like they were related, apparently) and the photographer had told her even back then that she had a “look,” and that photographer had gone on to do a few high-profile projects with Helmut Newton. So you never knew.

  She took the elevator to the fourth floor. When the door opened, Amanda found herself looking into a nondescript hallway. It was an office building, nothing more. All very typical for a respectable modeling agency. But somehow she’d expected the elevator to open into the agency’s foyer, stocked with fresh-cut flowers and staffed by a secretary with a beautiful throwback 50s hairstyle.

  This second lobby said: Still fine, but the decor says this probably isn’t Giselle’s agency.

  She felt the butterflies rise again in her stomach and willed them down.

  When she reached 4F — which bore a modest brass placard reading CRUSH AGENCY, LTD. — she knocked. The same pleasant male voice immediately answered, saying, “Come in.”

  The agency itself was even more unimpressive than its lobby or hallway. It had one main room and was very clean and nice, but small. There was a couch against one wall. Across from the couch was a desk with a computer on it. A handsome man who was probably in his late twenties stood behind the desk, apparently having just risen from the chair. He came toward her, and she recognized him. It was the man from the bowling alley — the agent. He extended a hand, and Amanda shook it.

  Apparently, he works alone, she thought.

  “We’ve met,” he said. “But I didn’t introduce myself. I apologize. I’m not used to simply approaching women, but this industry has taught me to have an eye. Did you know that Kate Moss was discovered while walking through JFK airport? Well. There you go. Have a seat.” He gestured at the couch. “I’m Paul. Paul Grundling. Yes, ugly name, I know. But what kind of a last name is Arbus? And she’s famous. You don’t have to be glamourous behind the camera, I suppose. Or behind the desk. I find people. They wouldn’t care if I had a troll head.”

  Now that he was talking more, Amanda realized that there was something a bit off about his speech. It wasn’t precisely that he had an accent — though he might have; she wasn’t sure. It was more that his cadence was slightly different from normal. It was more charming than off-putting, and she found herself smiling at his self-deprecating manner.

  She also felt that she should tell him that he didn’t have a troll head — it was quite the opposite, actually — just to break the ice, but she was sure it would sound idiotic. Or worse, it might sound sycophantic.

  This indecision and second-guessing wasn’t fair. She wasn’t used to being the one who was nervous. She was used to being the desired one — the one with the power. Back in high school, she’d been pursued by more suitors than she could list.

  He really didn’t have a troll head, though. He was kind of cute. He had a good build and nice hair.

  “But you came,” he said. “You came, so this is a good thing. Tell me, have you ever auditioned before?”

  Amanda was surprised to realize that she still had her voice, and that when she spoke, it didn’t betray her nervousness. That was good. Models were supposed to be aloof. Models were supposed to not give a shit whether they got the job or not. She could do that. She’d been pretending she didn’t care about male attention for years. She’d even pretended — once, and this was a long story — to not care about a rumor that had her screwing some guy in the bleachers, using a plastic MegaSub bag as a condom. It wasn’t true, of course, but letting the dirty looks roll off of her had taken her greatest powers of apathy.

  “No,” she said. “I did a small thing for a paper once. But no. No tryouts. Auditions. I mean … you know what I mean. But people have told me I should do this. I should model. Or … model, yeah.”

  Shit. Her aloofness was crumbling already.

  “Yes, you should. You have a great look. It’s hard to describe, your look. I mean, lots of girls are pretty. Lots of girls are ‘hot.’ But that gets old. Girls wi
th a good look can convey a lot with their eyes, with their expressions. They need to convey sexy, and sexy is more than sex. It’s more than, ‘Fuck me.’ It’s really about passion.”

  Amanda was surprised to hear the agent say something so uncensored and blunt, but what the hell, they were adults. And she was a smart girl; she knew that the root of all advertising and selling was really about sex.

  She nodded.

  “But yes, you’re very beautiful,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said, but he’d already turned away. When he turned back around, he handed her a clipboard. There was one piece of paper on the clipboard. At the top of the paper were the words MODEL RELEASE.

  “You have your ID?”

  “Oh … sure.” She dug her drivers’ license out of her purse. He took it, made a copy on a small machine behind his desk, and handed it back to her. As he did, she looked at the paper, wondering why she’d need a release already. But whatever. She could read it again more thoroughly before she committed to any paying jobs. She scanned it, wrote in her name and date of birth, then signed and dated it.

  The agent took the clipboard from her, added the Xerox of her license to it, and tossed the works onto a counter behind him with an air of having gotten some distasteful but necessary business behind him. Then he sat in his chair and crossed his arms, leaning back. He did have a good build, she realized. His forearms had visible striations in them.

  “Why do you need my ID?” she asked.

  “I need the ID and release for this,” he said. She followed his gesture and realized that there was a camera on a tripod next to the desk. The camera was small, and she hadn’t noticed it. Then she looked to the desk itself and saw another camera, this one on a smaller tripod. “I record all interviews. That’s okay, right? I need to be able to show my clients who you are and what you look like.”

  It seemed a bit odd, but she supposed it made sense. “I guess.”

  “So, speaking of ‘what you look like,’ can you stand up for me?”

  Amanda stood. She was wearing her tallest heels, which were tall but not ridiculous. She let the heels push her butt out and sucked her stomach in, not that there was really any to suck in. Her hands went to her hair, primping.

  “Very nice. Very beautiful. And can you spin?”

  She spun.

  “Wonderful. And your breasts … they are real?”

  That question almost made her laugh, but she understood. “Yes.”

  “Size?”

  “34C. Sometimes B.”

  “Very nice. No, keep standing. Look here, into this camera.” He tapped the taller camera on the tripod. “You are how old?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Good, okay. I have verified that, and I have a photocopy of your ID and a signed model release. So, now, with that formality out of the way, if you could take off your outer layer?”

  Amanda felt herself flush. “This is my only layer. Below this is just a bra.”

  “That’s fine. Go ahead, please.” The way he said it, it was like he was asking her for a little help with a basketball that had rolled up to her feet.

  “Wait … I thought this was just for modeling?” she asked, although her hands were already at the hem of her shirt.

  “Yes, modeling,” he said. “You need to be able to model anything that comes. Victoria’s Secret is sometimes a client. Plenty of times you’ll be asked to model covering with your hands, or wearing flesh-colored pasties over your nipples. You can’t be modest in this business. Runway models usually change in full sight of everyone to save time. This is standard. Is it okay?”

  Well, of course it would be standard. But still, she was a bit nervous. She’d just met him, after all.

  “If you don’t want to do it, that’s fine,” he said. He started to stand. She read his body language and realized that that’s fine meant thanks for coming meant see you later. It was a deal-breaker, in other words.

  She made an executive decision.

  She pulled her pink top up over her head. All of a sudden, she was standing in front of this strange man in her bra. The air felt cold, but that was probably just about reality versus her expectations. Having this much skin exposed was a surprise.

  “And the pants?” he asked. He saw her hesitation and added, “It’s no different from being at the beach.”

  She supposed it wasn’t. She wiggled out of her jeans and stood in front of him in her underwear.

  He stood and began walking around her, taking her in from all sides. She was suddenly glad that she’d put in so much time at the gym and was so careful about what she ate. She knew she looked good, and judging by his little satisfied noises, the agent agreed.

  He circled behind her. It was strangely exciting, being assessed. She wondered if she should be insulted to be judged physically, but then she decided it was nobody’s damn business what she felt.

  She realized all of a sudden that her nipples were getting hard. It must be the cold. He was sure to notice, and what would he think? This is what it must be like to be a boy in school who’s called to the chalkboard while sporting wood. She covered her breasts with her hands, preferring to come off demure rather than to come off as horny, which she definitely wasn’t.

  Almost certainly not.

  “Don’t cover up,” said the agent. “It’s all very good. You should be proud of your body, no matter its shape, and want to show it off to those who appreciate it.” Then, with an air that suggested something had just come to him, he said, “You know, I’ve never understood why in this country, nudity and sex are so taboo. It is a body. It is natural.”

  Sex?

  “I guess,” she said.

  “Okay,” he said in a back-to-business voice. “Now the rest.”

  “The rest?”

  “You look very good. Don’t be shy.”

  Oh my god. He wants me to get totally naked.

  And that was more of a surprise than the outer layer. But then again, there were the photos on the wall of him with tall models, standing in front of what were clearly fashion runways. And models often did nude work, even if nothing was visible to the camera. Hell, the PETA ads were that way: I’d rather go naked than wear fur. And it was true that she had an excellent body.

  But it was easier said than done, especially when it was so unexpected. She found herself saying, “I didn’t realize I’d need to….”

  “If you don’t want to do it, that’s fine,” he said. This time, he actually extended a hand to wish her good luck.

  Having a fully-clothed man she didn’t know offer to shake her hand in such a businesslike way while she stood in front of him in her bra and panties was downright hilarious, but she didn’t have time to laugh, scrambling to reassure him. “No, no,” she said. “It’s fine. I can do it.”

  She turned around and, facing away from him, reached back with both hands and unhooked the clasp of her bra. With one hand across her exposed breasts (and those nipples weren’t getting any softer), she reached over and carefully draped her bra over her jeans as if afraid it might wrinkle.

  Then she stopped, thinking. He’d said “the rest.” He was going to ask her to take off her panties next, so she could either keep playing games or just do it now. This was a chance to show him that she could be a pro, and wasn’t a prude. She pulled her panties down and wiggled out of them.

  She stood facing the couch, her back and rear to the agent. Apparently, the message to stop being demure hadn’t reached her legs.

  “You don’t need to be shy,” he said. “This is my work. I see naked girls all the time. I’m like a doctor.” And he chuckled.

  So she turned around. It felt too cliché to cross her breasts with one arm and put another over her crotch, so she settled for doing half of each, her arms somewhere near her middle, unable to stay totally away from intermittently covering what should really be covered and had no business being out in an office.

  “Very nice,” he said.

  Then, kindly, he
took her by the forearm and pulled back the hand that kept wanting to cover her breasts. It was so, so strange to feel shy. She was usually in charge whenever she was in clothes-off situations.

  “So. Turn for the camera?”

  She did, and felt a trill run up her spine from being so fully exposed. When she completed the turn, she realized that there was a strange sensation below the belt. Or at least, where the belt no longer was.

  Oh, shit. Am I wet? she thought.

  And as crazy as it seemed, she was. She felt heat coming from inside. She felt cold as her wetness met in the cool office air. The combination was maddening.

  She very much did not want to be wet, if only because he might see it as unprofessional. He might even be offended. It also put him in control in terms of business, because it meant that at least part of her wanted something. When you negotiated — and this was a very strange negotiation, but a negotiation nonetheless — you were supposed to want very little, or want nothing.

  He put his hands on his hips and looked her over. “Okay. You are very beautiful. But right now, for the way the magazines are, I think you are too short for traditional modeling. We could try, and I might be able to get you some jobs. But they won’t be the best jobs. Not what you deserve. So that is not the best choice.”

  Feeling very strange conducting a business conversation stark naked, Amanda said, “But you could get the jobs?”

  “Yes, but not great work … and honestly, kind of humiliating. You are beautiful, but your height moves you way down on the list, as if you were not beautiful. There are many, many women wanting to model.”

  She sighed. “Oh.” And here she’d gotten buck naked for nothing.

  “There is opportunity, though. There’s an area where you could do very well and make a lot of money.”

  “What?”

  “You could work in the adult business.”

  “Like Playboy?”