Blow Job Princess

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Krakov Corporate Concepts was located two blocks south of Colfax Avenue in a sad little brick building that came complete with a half-destroyed dumpster in the back parking lot. The location was advantageous, according to Krakov, because it kept his employees in touch with reality. This ugly stretch of pavement was our poor American version of a dacha, he liked to say – our second home. It was bombed-out and played-out. The bums scavenged in the alleys and the more enterprising vagrants caught the RTD out to the Mission for a real meal once a day. And when Krakov spoke the word dacha across his Russian tongue, he laid a unique emphasis on it. He seemed to say to all of us: if we failed in our jobs, the gutter was just a few steps away.

Corporate Concepts was one of many lookalike companies that Krakov owned. Our humble office produced corporate training films on bland topics, such as workplace safety, product training, and sexual harassment. It was just a job, as people say. Yet after three years of checking in at 8:30 and slinking home at 5:00, I was astonished at how my grand plans to become a film editor at some Hollywood production company had slipped away.

The open secret among the employees was that our boss, Krakov, ran a barely legal business. “Anything for a buck,” summed up his ethic, and his secret to success was diversion and confusion. All of Krakov’s companies had names that sounded like bigger, better known companies and his guiding strategy was to mislead executives into buying his services by mistake.

The reason I stayed, I told myself, was that underneath it all Corporate Concepts was still a good company with a lot of heart. That was only partly true – mostly it was the lovely girls, or rather one particular lovely girl – that kept me plugging along. Her desk was in the front of the office, near the creaky elevator that somehow smelled exactly like I imagined it did when it was installed in 1955. She was a ridiculously busty and pleasantly plump red head that spelled disaster every time I walked by. A work romance was a bridge too far, and yet I couldn’t help daydream over the possibility. Or more accurately, I wallowed in the idea of nothing more than spending hours with my mouth latched onto her breasts. I had tits on my mind, and hers drove me crazy.

Krakov himself had boundless energy, but a misdirected sense of artistic mission that filtered through everything we did. Simply put, we produced films that ranked near amateur grade – I often imagined that our training films were viewed once by managers and then locked away in a vault, never to be mentioned again. I did console myself with the idea that we also produce passionate films. He wanted it all to “seem real” as he would always intone, and with our cheap production values and so-so lighting, we did capture a documentary style that was sometimes unnervingly up close and personal.

Another of Krakov’s businesses was a call center that worked in the top floor of our brick building. And then there was a collection agency on the second floor, which harassed people to make payments on their wide screen TV’s, and which employed a half-dozen Spanish speakers, none who seemed to know a word of English.

And finally there was an adult film company, by the name of Stella by Starlight, which appropriately enough occupied the entire basement, just like the unruly stepchild it was. It surprised new employees to learn that in the dusty rooms downstairs were offices for an X-rated film company, but after meeting Krakov and sensing his sketchy background, the astonishment faded. What else would someone expect? Following this somewhat shocking revelation, there followed shrugged shoulders from myself and other long-time employees of the Krakov ‘family’ and the topic was suddenly blasé.

When business was slow at Corporate Concepts, I took the stairs down to the basement and planted myself behind a desk and wrote adult scripts for Stella. It was a nice change from my usual corporate script work, which usually included product safety instructions and other material that was simply as boring as watching the RTD busses creep up and down the street.

Krakov was a nutcase for a good porn script. His dream in life was to emulate the success of Deep Throat, which earned the producers an enormous amount of money with little effort. In his mind, this was the ultimate get rich quick scam. He was convinced the movie did killer business because of three factors: a great title, a good script, and a believable cast. All of this fit his flawed-yet-passionate character. Every week or two I’d drop him off a copy of one of my new porn scripts, which he variably compared –poorly – to Deep Throat, the gold standard by his estimation. He urged me further along when my efforts showed promise, always repeating his mantra about what made for a great porn film.

It’s got to be real, he told me. Well – he then always corrected himself – not real, but believable. And then he surmised in a gruff manner: If it’s good, it’ll bostancı escort make millions, no matter… He would then appear to be lost in deep thought over Deep Throat, and wander away, the carpet emitting static electricity jolts from his scuffing shoes.

But most of my time was spent scripting bland corporate material. The one saving grace of our training films was their strict adherence to ‘reality’, which in Krakov’s view dictated a large amount of surly behavior from the characters on screen. Our films always suggested that polite society was nothing more than a fraud. This meant that when we filmed a sexual harassment scene, it seemed disturbingly real. The guys were lecherous and loathsome. They were always deserving of that lawsuit – or at least a stinging memo from HR – and it seemed like Cro-Magnon man was not in the museum downtown, but just around the corner making photocopies and leering at customer service girls.

The women were enticing, believable, and overtly sexual. Krakov was a casting genius. The girls were tempting in a way that suggested the entire 1970’s porn-world had somehow been transferred into a modern business of cubicles and email. A man watching the film and ogling the women on screen might be tempted to think: I want to work at that office! And then later, after our cautionary story unfolded and the men got sent away in handcuffs, he might think: maybe it’s better if I just stay away from women altogether.

Krakov liked my scripts because he thought I wrote good dialogue. His favorite line was spoken by a gorgeous woman – who in a reversal – was harassing a male associate. In the scene, she was accidentally rubbing against a reluctant man in the coffee break room while reaching for a container of non dairy creamer. With no provocation she simply says, “Baby, do I make it bigger than ever?”

This had nothing to do with the on-screen action at that point and was a complete goof, but Krakov loved it because it was just the right amount of awkwardness and libidinal aggressiveness. For weeks afterward, whenever there was a lull in the conversation he simply smiled and apropos of nothing said, “make it bigger than ever,” and then laughed to himself.

It took eight full-time employees to produce our usual run of both corporate communiqués and porn, which was one film a week. Most of us were liberal arts majors who once dreamed of exotic jobs like running art galleries, building wineries in France, or in one case – publishing our own communist inspired newspaper. Reality turned out to be somewhat different, but we still managed to inhabit our old beliefs by inserting them into our work in the present day. I edited the finished movies to a fine point, and edited and rewrote scripts to avoid miniscule continuity errors. It was a small compensation, but many days I just felt happy to have a job in the industry when I thought about my friends and their unhappy compromises. Sometimes, too, I looked out the window at the dumpster in our parking lot and wondered just how many unlucky turns of fate I was away from such an end.

Krakov saved money by getting his employees to play parts occasionally, and he did not shy away from the obvious limits of his expertise or budget. This made my job much easier. The blonde sitting across from me made extra money for car payments and remolding her condo by donning a wig and becoming Casey Adams, which meant if I had to write a scene in which she seduced a tow truck driver, or perhaps in another film, discussed the benefits of the corporate dental care plan, all I had to do was look ten feet to my left and imagine her in such a situation. Chances were we wouldn’t even rent a tow truck for filming; we’d just grab Steve’s pickup and have the camera guy attempt to overcome the obvious holes in the production.

Sometimes she saw me studying her, daydreaming over her as Casey Adams, trying to imagine a new Deep Throat with her in whatever role it demanded. But she wasn’t right; it didn’t work.

My own prejudices took me further down the hall to my curvy red head who did administrative work part time, didn’t need extra money, and who would never dare to take off her clothes for the camera. I wondered if she even knew my name. I would linger by her desk, imagining her saying certain things, in certain outfits, sprawled into certain positions. She would be typing away or studying files, and I would hang around her desk long after it was time to leave, paging through a magazine, stealing glances, hoping that tomorrow I would have the guts to ask her to lunch.

I mused that she was like Loni Aderson’s character in WKRP in Cincinnati. She was a hottie, a dangerous distraction. She was a person who didn’t belong doing clerical work at a down-and-out dump, and stayed in the business for mysterious reasons.

But that was before my big chance. The one good thing I wrote. That was before I composed ‘Blow Job Princess’ on my computer and then issued it from my printer, and although the pages smelled ümraniye escort bayan like any other HP Ink Jet draft copy, I knew it was something special.

The plot was simple, and somehow right. It played to some silly idea of male vanity, and in its basic structure the script was a crass homage to Deep Throat (and probably a hundred or so other films): A beautiful – too beautiful – woman is unfulfilled by sex. She is lured into becoming a sex kitten, and in so doing, becomes fulfilled.

The morning the script was ready I deposited it under Krakov’s nose, knowing that he would set aside everything else until it was read and properly digested – and then weighed against Deep Throat. I waited on his faux-leather couch and watched as his bushy eyebrows raised and furrowed as he pursued the pages. Finally, he finished the script and set it down. Silently, he walked over to his liquor cabinet, poured two glasses of cheap whiskey, and set one in front of me. “Drink up,” he said. “You deserve this.”

He felt that Blow Job Princess could be his Deep Throat…. never mind the economics of the adult film industry had been turned on its head in the last thirty or more years. It’s got the title, he said. It’s got a good script, he said. But I wonder if it’s believable, he said. Or at least plausible.

“Have you ever experienced anything like this?”

“No, of course not,” I confessed. “It’s just a script. An idea.”

“What do think about the plump red head?” I saw that he was thinking his deep thoughts yet again. He contemplated his drink. He contemplated making a decent film for a change. He contemplated untold millions of dollars and retiring his 1974 Lincoln for a model made in this century.

“I wrote it thinking of someone like that: a curvy, sexy, red head,” I said. “That’s just where my instincts sent me.”

He smiled. He had seen me lingering around our own busty red head and knew my not-so-secret lust. But I continued. “I suppose it could be any girl who was generally right for the part. She just needs to be gorgeous, of course. Feminine. Adorable. Loveable. Crazy-sexy. The kind of girl you’d sell your soul for.”

“It must be plausible, in its own way,” he said. His eyes were again on his drink as his particular bent on reality took hold. “Our character is a bit on the voluptuous side, yes?”

I nodded my head. “I think curves and a bit of ‘extra-girl’, if you will, are ridiculously tempting. An over-full hourglass, perhaps.”

“A lot a tits, some belly, big curves. But sweet?”

I nodded my head again. I had thrown a bunch of breast obsessed language into the script. I wondered if my fantasizing had derailed my story in some manner.

He sat back and thought before he spoke: “I tell you what. Take the rest of the week off… I’ll figure out what our film needs, and you get to know your new topic a bit better. Do some research. Think of some rewrites. Pretend you’re a real Hollywood mogul. We’re NOT going to do this the normal way.” Our normal way meant, I understood, half-assed.

One week off. That was incredibly generous. I played Hollywood mogul by not setting my alarm clock. I wore a bathrobe as I drank my coffee. I went to the gym in the middle of the day and avoided the after work crowds. My research consisted of mostly lounging around my place. I spent part of the week perusing crappy articles via the online website of Psychology Today, and reading about a segment of the American population that held a strong belief in spontaneous telephone explosions. I then rediscovered back issues of Scientific American stacked around my house – one of which had an odd article about identical twins and inherited political predispositions.

My biggest thrill came when I noticed that the Denver Post published a letter I wrote in angry-old-man-style concerning the many mattresses that fell of the backs of trucks and which I kept having to avoid while driving on I-25. My semi-serious research also found me trolling a few adult websites and posting a rambling free-advert about needing to find a curvy, busty, gorgeous red head with which to do ‘research for an up-coming adult movie’.

I received zero serious responses, except from a woman in Tallahassee, who suggested I post an advert on an actual modeling/actress website instead, with which I replied ‘…but that costs money.’ She did not reply back.

I did run across a local woman – amazingly busty and curvy, which she confirmed via the most gorgeous pictures of her torso – and a genuine red head too, but alas no interest in Corporate Concepts adult-film business, and therefore no hope of matching a gorgeous face to a gorgeous body. As I ruminated over the script as it stood, I started questioning whether there was any reason to stay with a red head, or indeed a voluptuous woman. The easy way was simply to lock-down the script, cast one of the regulars, film the bad boy, and move on. I figured this was what awaited me upon my return to work Monday morning. Grand designs kartal escort were easily set aside.

Instead, when I sat down at my desk I was greeted with one of Krakov’s infamous memos, which always started with a random quote completely irrelevant to the topic at hand, and then continued to three times the length the topic required. Thus I began reading words grabbed from The Brothers Karamazov about family and honor. This then segued into a diatribe about the mediocrity of product found in today’s media conglomerates. I could tell he was building up to one of his sweeping proclamations. The last paragraph finally spelled it out in no uncertain terms. I was to meet Vada –the plump, curvy red head from the office – for lunch and we were to get to know each other. We would be finishing the script together over the coming week. Obviously he knew my inspiration-bone needed to be tickled. ‘Punch it up,’ he wrote in his memo, and then as his usual afterthought, ‘Make me believe it.’

This was my reward for the brilliance of the script ‘Blow Job Princess’: a working lunch with the girl of my lust-filled dreams. Of course, I was thrilled. ‘Punch up the script’ he said. I never really knew what that phrase meant, but I always nodded my head and pretended to consider the words carefully. I wanted to arrive early at the restaurant, naturally. Vada was an unknown to me, and so far away from my reality I didn’t let my mind wander to romantic possibilities. Instead, it was just pure lust. Every time I saw her, I undressed her in my mind – she never even had the chance to say a single sentence in my sex-starved fantasies.

On the way to lunch, I left the office from the back stairs to avoid the elevator down to the parking lot, and in so doing avoided seeing her. I needed to keep what I considered a clean slate in my estimation before we were to actually sit down together and – gulp – work on my trashy X-rated story.

The place Krakov sent us to was a not-so-good Mexican restaurant our work bunch sometimes went to for office birthdays, and I ordered their strongest margarita to settle myself. How much did she know about me? I made a note to use my name in conversation and see if it triggered mental connections for her that were older than this week. Then I realized how stupid that idea sounded, and that I shouldn’t have wasted all that time last week reading dumb Psychology Today articles that fucked with my head.

There she was. The lights were turned down low, probably because the owners thought it was classy, and so when she appeared in the entrance she stood there for an extra moment as her eyes adjusted, and she looked around for my face. In that time my eyes fell over her with every last once of energy. It was the first time I had ever seen her outside the office. And then a thought drove itself into my brain: she was preoccupied with something, and that something was me. I burned that image of her standing there – her eyes trying to penetrate the darkness for my face – and vowed to keep hold of it.

We talked, I laughed my nervous laugh, and she smiled a genuine smile. I ordered another margarita and she ordered one, as well… I tried not to get hot sauce on my shirt while listening to her voice, barely understanding her words in the normal sense. For every word there seemed a dozen meanings, and when she said “work together” all I could imagine was my vision of her in the script: Her mouth open, her red hair gathered in my hands, my body losing all control and giving itself over to some urge. It seemed at times she could read my mind, or at least the expressions which I felt must be passing across my face: I am in lust with you; you are my red headed princess…

“How long have you worked for Krakov?” I couldn’t resist trying to figure out why this sensational woman stayed in what I considered to be the least opportune office in Denver.

“Oh, it’s been years. I was the second employee to come aboard, actually.” She smiled thoughtfully as she said this. “Did you know he originally wanted to call the company Krakov Korporate Koncepts – all with ‘K’s…? I had to talk him out of it. Only when I mentioned that it would initial KKK, did he start to see the logic.”

I smiled back.

“I suppose I better get a copy of the script from you, then…” She said this like the conversation was now making its inevitable turn towards the routine of work. Even when she was all business, I loved the way her voice sounded.

“You mean you haven’t read it yet?” I didn’t expect to sound anxious, incredulous, but I knew that’s how my words came out.

“Nope. I just know that we’re working on a script together. Krakov left me a sticky note to meet you here. That’s it.”

I was wondering if she even knew it was an X-rated endeavor. His obtuseness could be overpowering. I also felt a pang of desperation. I imagined she liked me at this point. How much of that would change if she actually read the script – read the details – and saw just what kind of sex-obsessed adolescent I really was? It wouldn’t take but a moment for her to connect the dots: Real busty red head, allow me to introduce you to fictional busty red head. Or in other words, here’s a 30 page summary of how I’ve fantasized about you while hanging around your desk. Enjoy.

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