Well He Didn't Want A Boring Job After University...
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair. Well, that sounded good to me; what did our generation have? “Greed is Good”, “Lunch is for Wimps”, “Loadsamoney”. It hardly compared with “turn on tune in drop out”, did it?
I’d always been convinced I was born in the wrong generation. How could anyone love the Thatcherite Eighties?
I wasn’t interested in buying BT shares or getting on the bloody property ladder. I wanted to be at some festival with cool bands and an unlimited supply of uninhibited hippy chicks.
I used to say that we were the unluckiest generation that ever lived, cursed with both AIDS and Thatcher. Of course, with all the shit that’s going on in the world now the Yuppie Decade doesn’t seem so bad, but that’s not how it felt at the time
University had been great. We were the last generation of students to get a full grant, so as long as you didn’t mind living frugally (and I’d never known anything else) you could leave without any debt.
Nowadays anyone who can string a sentence together can get into University, but it wasn’t like that back then – a degree really meant something. Not that I wanted a “good” job. I just wanted to be able to pay the bills without being a Thatcherite robot.
When the Milk Round came to the university it was every bit as depressing as it sounds.
“Why do you want to work for British Gas?” asked some stooge in a suit.
“To be honest, mate. I don’t.” I walked away from the desk without looking back. I wasn’t going to be bought.
It was over drinks in the Swan that I got talking to Comrade Kev, a local lad I knew who was active in the Socialist Workers Party, or was it the Revolutionary Communist Party? I didn’t know and didn’t care. Still, at least Kev didn’t go around buying shares or bragging about how much his fucking house was worth. I’d actually got to know him from the football team that we both played for. He was a tough tackling centre half – any notions of a worldwide brotherhood ended as soon as he put his boots on, that’s for sure.
I was explaining my predicament over a few pints of Old Peculiar as he smoked one of his disgusting roll ups. This was years before the smoking ban.
“I get you mate, I really do.” Kev blew out a cloud of smoke. “I might be able to help you there. How do you fancy a trip to San Francisco? “
“Are you kidding me? I’ve always wanted to go there. Haight-Ashbury, the whole hippy thing. Although of course, I don’t want to be propping up Reagan’s Fascist regime in any way.”
“You needn’t worry there, mate,” said Kev. “The fella you’ll be working for is definitely not a fan of the Old Cowboy.”
A few weeks later I was on the plane. I just couldn’t believe my luck. My mates were all either still on the dole or taking the first baby steps into Yuppiedom and respectability. They were actually talking about mortgages- ugh!
I was going to the hippy centre of the world to work for some sort of creative company. Kev said I’d find out all the details when I got there, but assured me it was legit. Rock n roll, baby!
The plane ride was terrifying and wonderful at the same time. I’d never even flown before; my only previous time abroad was on a cross channel ferry to France as a kid. I felt like I’d arrived, and I liked it a lot.
There was someone to meet me at the airport. She there holding a sign with my name on, just like in the movies. She was bloody gorgeous, but as far as I could see, they all seemed to be over here.
“Hi, I’m Trixie. You must be Mr Summers over from England?”
I nodded. I didn’t tryst myself to speak. Her voice was as lovely as the rest of her.
“If you could come with me please?” She put a hand on my arm and I felt myself getting a hard on. To take my mind off such things I tried to concentrate as she told me where we were going. She said it was an area known as Lafayette Park, and she assured me I’d love it.
We got into a car that was the size of a fucking bus. I tried to remember that I despised materialism, but I was fighting a losing battle. I saw the trams and got a great view of the Golden Gate Bridge. It felt like I was in a movie.
I got to a large building that I suppose would have been quite historic by American standards. A few more babes of the quality of my chauffeur were milling about and I was taken into an office.
It was all black leather and chrome, the kind of place where you could imagine a Bond Villain kicking back with a few beers.
“Hi there, you must be David. Jed Karnovsky. Pleased to meet you.”
He put out a hand and practically crushed mine in his powerful fingers.
“Nice place you have here, Jed.” I felt I had to say something.
“Don’t you just love the way they talk? Kevin over in England was right, he’ll be perfect.”
“Well, if everything we’ve been told is the truth.” This was Trixie, who stared at me so intently I looked away.
“So, you’ve got me over here, and very nice it is too, but what exactly will I be doing?”
“David, David, never discuss business after a long-haul flight. Trixie will see you to your apartment and we’ll meet for breakfast tomorrow. Does nine work for you?” Jed slapped me on the shoulder so hard it smarted. I tried not to show it.
As we walked out of the room, he also slapped Trixie on the bottom. She didn’t seem to mind.
Trixie drove like a demon through the streets of “downtown”, as I soon learned to call it. We arrived at my apartment block and she showed me in with a “voila!”.
Fucking wow! I’d just come from a student house that had its own herd of cockroaches and industrial scale damp. This place was amazing; luxury leather furniture and huge TV and hi fi. Even a well stacked bar.
“Help yourself to anything, sweetie,” said Trixie. “Jed says it’s all on the house. Enjoy.”
“Oh, I will.”
“So,” she leaned on the sofa, “is there anything else I can get you?”
“Err… no thanks.” She didn’t mean what I think she meant, did she?
“God, I love you British guys.” She gave me a peck on the check and sashayed out. I watched her bottom as she went. It was so magnificent that it would have been rude not to.
The next day I had a shower. I thought I’d had showers before but nothing compared to the power showers in the USA. I felt like I’d been blast cleaned.
Trixie picked me up and we were soon in Karnovsky’s office. He greeted me wearing shorts and a vest; I could see a thatch of silver-grey hair poking out of the top. No male waxing in those days.
“David!” He clasped my hands like a mafia boss and gave Trixie a kiss. She sat down on the leather sofa next to Jed.
“So, Trixie. Is it time to tell him exactly what our business is?”
“I think so. Let’s have some drinks first. Candy, fix us some drinks, would you babe?”
Candy walked into the room carrying a tray. I was surprised to see that we were drinking cocktails at nine in the morning, but not half as surprised as I was by Candy – she was completely naked.
Jed leaned over to me. “As you may now realise, we’re in the adult entertainment industry; we’d like you to become a movie star, ain’t that right, Trixie.”
“Sure is. Your buddy in England did some work for us on his summer vacation last year, but he struggled with it to be honest. He recommended you after having seen you in the locker room after your soccer games. He said you’d be very suitable.”
“What? You want me to become a porn star?”
“Please David,” said Jed, “don’t make it sound so sleazy. These are upmarket movies we make here, artistic stuff, not the cheap money shots.”
“I don’t care I’m not doing it.”
“Now come on, David,” Trixie stroked my thigh. “With your British accent and your other… assets, you’ll make a killing. We want you to play a character called Sir Screwalot.”
Jed handed me a piece of paper with the proposed fee for my first film. It would have taken most of my friends several months to earn as much.
I was outraged. “I can’t believe Kevin suggested this, this filth! The man’s a socialist. How can he agree with the exploitation of women like this?”
Candy laughed. I’d forgotten she was there, in so far as it’s possible to forget the presence of a stunningly beautiful, naked woman.
“What’s so funny?” I asked her.
“You, babe. Don’t you know that in porn, the women are the stars? The men are just the props. I earn three times as much as you will.” She blew me a kiss.
“Look David,” said Jed. “I can see that all this has come as a shock to your delicate British constitution. Let Trixie take you back to your apartment and you can think about it.”
So, I thought about it, I did like the apartment and the city. I wasn’t the most sexually experienced person, but on the odd occasions when I had done it, I’d always enjoyed it. Also, suffice it to say, I was sure Thatcher wouldn’t approve. Oh, what the hell?
So, I became a porn star, I enjoyed myself and yes, I made a small fortune. OK so it wasn’t exactly the hippie ideal. I never did put flowers in my hair, well, when we did Lady Chatterley, I put flowers round my…never mind. I married Candy in the end as well. You think people like us don’t have long term relationships? You’d be surprised.
I’m now one of the major players in the industry on the West Coast. Jed told me that he’d come to think of me as a son, and he ended up leaving the whole business to me.
Sadly, he passed away in the early nineties as AIDS took its toll. Still, he’d certainly enjoyed his life and he always said he had no regrets.
As for Comrade Kev, he left the radical politics behind him and got a job in insurance. Nothing wrong with that of course, we’ve all got to make a living.
He’s now a leading member of the Brexit Party, much to my disgust. I might have betrayed my hippy ideals, and many people would object to what I do, but at least I never sank that low.
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