The end of integrity
Two years after my misdemeanours with the, shall we say, well-endowed gentleman and of course, two hundred pounds the richer, my fate took another unusual and inevitably sexual twist when by chance my fortune crossed the path of a man named Greg. This time, however, it was not him that I would have to entertain, but an audience of the paying public. Well, to put it bluntly, I didn't have to shag him, merely pose for him, naked, obviously and have my pictures be used in international porn magazines for the albeit sticky amusement of the masses. At the time I have to say that this prospect did appeal to me greatly.
This curious tale began on the internet, as such things do, with a respectable and well used dating site. A friend (who at the time worked for a reputable modelling agency) and I decided to place an advert on there as a joke to tease and entice impressionable young men into our metaphorical den of iniquity; however, being fascinated by this anonymous world of sin and sex, I used the profile far more frequently than was perhaps healthy.
After a few months of having the profile placed prominently on the site I received an e-mail in my, at that time, barren inbox from an unidentified ad.
"Hey there. Nice pictures. Get back to me if you're interested"
Naturally I ignored his plea and carried on my daily rigmarole unhindered. However, later that evening, my inbox was practically raped by a series of e-mails sent by said man asking me to call him. I replied, a little perturbed, enquiring as to why he showered me with such attention. The ping of the received e-mail sounded immediately and so I read the reply.
"I take naked photographs of people aged 18 - 25 for a Dutch based magazine company." Was I interested, the e-mail proceeded, and if so, when was I available?
That night, whilst laying in my bed contemplating the events of the day I could not but help think of Greg's proposition. The obvious questions spiralled in my head - what would my parents think if they found out, would I be in any danger, isn't it illegal? I was perplexed: torn between the naïve attraction of infamy and money and yet held back by my reservations around the entire subject as a whole.
The next day I replied to his message, withholding as much information as I possible could about myself. I affirmed interest in the matter but asked for more information. I don't know if he had some form of automated response, but he replied almost immediately.
"I take photos for cash. £500 pounds for the preliminary shoot and £400 for the proceeding two. Need to have more photos of you now though." Ok, so at my age and the mounting debt from being a student for a year it doesn't take an Oxford undergraduate to do the maths to see how attractive a prospect this was. More to the point, let's just say that I sent him some rather revealing photos of myself: revealing enough to allow him to see if I were 'suitable', if you catch my drift, for the job in hand. The inevitable reply came quickly.
"Nice photos: you're exactly what I'm looking for. If you work well in the shoot we can put you onto doing group work. Greg." Group work? What the fuck was that!? Apparently 'group work' involved posing with others, of similar age and inclinations, holding genitalia and simulating sex. If I were "lucky" I'd get the chance to be in a film as well. Nice. I cannot express the initial disgust, mixed with excitement as my heart grew in its pace and I suddenly became very nervous.
A few weeks passed as I contemplated the proposition, thinking over again and again about how bad an idea it was. It was a strange feeling; despite my perpetual reluctance to undertake such a task, I could not resist the allure of Greg's proposals. To cut a very long story short however, and after weeks of deliberative prevarication, I finally decided that although imprudent, doing porn would certainly benefit my bank balance. I had no plans to become an MP, no aspirations to become famous - how on earth could it hurt? (No bad puns intended of course). We'd arranged a meeting place - Holborn at 2:30pm. I was to wear white briefs, white socks, trainers, and a bright coat. He would be wearing the same. Ok, so apart from this being a weird idea, it was a stupid one too as there were like a million and one people who happened to be around Holborn wearing the same thing. I eventually spotted him though, through the sea of Addidas and Reebok that had descended into the area. He was old, he was dirty and most of all he was a dirty old perve who wanted to take photos of young impressionables such as myself. This point was one of those moments in my life where reason triumphed over blind greed and I found myself on the next Tube home. As I sat next to a homeless man playing a guitar I imagined myself in a dark room in North London, being photographed by Greg, the dirty old perve from Birmingham, feeling scared, naked and vulnerable. Thirteen hundred pounds is a lot of money, but the experiences of two years before had taught me something: well, not really, I just got scared.
20th Feb 2003