Chapter 5

I'd practically forgotten all about the photos I'd posed for when Herb got ahold of me during the middle of January, talking so quickly and excitedly that I had to tell him to slow down and repeat himself.

"He bought them!" he repeated.

"Who bought what?" I demanded.

"Ralph Baljoni . . . the publisher of Pussy," he shouted into the telephone. "He really flipped out over them. He wants to feature them in a centerfold."

It took me a few minutes to figure out what he was talking about. I had nearly forgotten about the photo session, figuring he'd sold them, at best, to some cheap beaver mag, or perhaps hadn't even sold them at all. A lot had happened to me since then, and I'm afraid the name of Ralph Baljoni (that's pronounced, BAL-yoni-he uses the 'y' pronunciation of old Italy) really didn't mean that much to me at the time.

I had taken a job at a photography lab owned by a friend of my teacher at school. He'd felt pretty bad when he'd been unable to help me with a scholarship, but wanted to do something for me since he didn't want me to give up on my photography. I had dropped down to just that class, and it was almost final time, so he arranged it so that I could get my assignments from him during my time off from the lab. He had pleaded with me to stay in school, but when I told him how broke I was, he urged me to take this job with this friend in the photo lab, to save my money and come back next year.

As it turned out, I never did go back to school, but I did get an A on the last class I took. At least my teacher had the confidence in me to urge me to continue photography. Working in the lab wouldn't really teach me that much that I didn't already know, and I'd only be doing processing, not any actually shooting, but at least I'd be around professionals in some capacity and be getting the money I so badly needed.

I was so grateful to Mr. Dobbs-that's my teacher-that I wanted to ball him. But he was really straight, a dedicated family man. But I'll have to hand it to him-he did give me my first real encouragement in the field.

I started working at the lab right after New Year's, having dropped all my classes but Mr. Dobbs' back in December, not long after I'd shot the session with Herb. Since I only had to go into school once a week to get my assignments from him, I moved out of the dorm, getting a small refund after a hassle with the administration. The photo lab was in Hollywood, and the old clunker I'd bought with some of the remaining money from my inheritance wasn't in too good of shape, so I rented a small single apartment in Hollywood, not far from the job. It wasn't a luxury place, but I managed to fix it up so that it was livable. In a way, I really dug it. It was the first time I was out on my own in the world . . . my first place of my own. I had just turned twenty.

I realize that a car may seem like a luxury, but if you've ever lived in Los Angeles, you'd know it was a necessity. There's practically no rapid transit there, and the place is all spread out, the birthplace of lateral gravity, my friend, Sherman Ochs, the prominent author calls it. Or was that the other writer, Jimmy Olsen? I'm not sure. Anyway, I'd have enough money from my job that I could swing it. At the campus, my life had been entwined around that one area, and I'd been able to get a ride from my friends if we were going somewhere else. But now that I was on my own, I really needed the wheels.

The work was sort of routine, but I did get a chance to work with equipment that I'd never used before, and there was little hassle. I also got the chance to get a lot of advice from the various professional photographers that had their work done in our lab. As I had access to use the equipment for my own uses during off hours, I resolved to keep up with my photography.

And now here was Herb, like some voice from the distant past telling me over the office phone about the success. I hadn't really expected to hear from him again, and if so, not so soon. He'd really hustled them.

"Understand, Donna," he told me into the phone, "This is a big sale. He's laying out a grand for it. Not too many people top that. It's the centerfold-he bought the color photo and everything. He asked me to provide a little dummy material for it, and I told him I'd check with you. I had a hell of a time tracking you down. When can we get together?"

I went on to explain to him that I was working, but the fact that he had a hundred-dollar check for me made me decide to break a date I had for the evening and go see him. At least he'd lived up to his promise. He was just being smart. If this Mr. Balwhoozit, or whatever his name was had flipped like Herb said, well, they might want more work from me in the future. It was good business for him to keep me on the line by sweetening the thing with a little money. Of course, I've since learned that a hot model can make a lot more, even in porn, not to mention advertising. But most models just got a flat fee, signed a release, and the photos became the property of the photographer, who in turn would sell them to whomever he could get to pay for them.

So at this stage of the game, I considered it a lucky break. I was in no position to turn down a hundred dollars.

I got over to Herb's place around eight, having changed after work. He was bright and cheery, offering me a drink right away, which I naturally accepted.

"How'd you track me down?"

"Through Lisa."

Lisa was the girl who staged the parties where I first ran into Herb.

We settled down on the couch, Herb producing some model release forms, having me sign them, then giving me the check. He seemed really happy about the situation.

"I want to do some more things," he said. "I mean, you've really brought me luck. This is really my biggest layout to date."

"When can we start?"

"Well, I'm not sure . . . " he hesitated. "This guy Baljoni has taken a liking to you and . . . well, he gets first option on anything. He wants to see how the issue does, but he's flipped over you. We'll wait and see."

What neither one of us knew at the time was that Ralph Baljoni wanted me more than Herb. But I wouldn't find out about this for a few months to come.

"Now I've got to provide some stuff for the copy . . . " he went on, taking out a notepad.

He went on to explain to me what he meant by copy. A lot of the cheap publications just make up a whole name and identity to go along with the pictures, the copy only running a few lines anyway. But Ralph Baljoni had begun to upgrade his magazine and wanted the copy to seem more real, even though it was dummied up too. Since he was patterning the centerfold concept after Playboy, he wanted to stress the college image.

"Want to use your real name?" he asked me.

As part of the whole come-on, Mr. Baljoni wanted to let a girl use her real name if possible. He wanted to promote the girls, so that if they went on to some form of stardom, he could brag that he'd given them their break.

"No," I said flatly.

Stardom was the farthest thing from my mind. Sure, me a star-ha! That'd be the day. But Herb stressed that there was a good chance that he might want to use me again, and he'd want to use the same name. So if I didn't want to use my real name, I should at least come up with one I liked.

I thought about it for a little while. The idea both appealed to me, and at the same time scared me away. The idea of being a sexy pinup was nice, but I didn't want the people that knew me to associate the name. Somehow, the feelings of my parents still lingered. I'd stopped feeling guilty about their deaths, but I didn't want to do anything that I felt might have disgraced them. So I thought about another name-Donna Milsap didn't really make it anyway-that's my real name.

"Morris," I finally told him. "Donna Morris."

He shrugged and wrote it down, not actually enthused about the name. But I was on the spot and had to think of one in a hurry.

At any rate, the rest of the article would be similar to my life, but not exact. Since he'd been looking for a college girl for the Pussy centerfold, the fact I was attending school fit in . . . well, actually I wouldn't still be going by the time the magazine came out anyway.

The rest was pure bullshit, pretty vague. They just said that I was attending a college in the L.A. area, not Edgar. They didn't try to follow the girl around on the job the way they do now-you know, the way they have the girl at home with her family, at school or her job . . . all that bullshit that Pussy has borrowed from Playboy and all. Like I say, it was a much smaller operation in those days. The clubs, the other magazines . . . all that came much later on in the operation, once Ralph Baljoni became really messianic.

I didn't even know what they had in mind at this time, other than what Ralph had told me. I'd never even glanced through a Pussy, and here I was about to adorn their centerfold page. But the main thing that interested me at the time was the money.

After going over the details with Ralph, he got up.

"Wait a minute," I reminded him. "Is this the way you usually seal your deals. As I recall, the last time you made our agreement a little more binding."

"I didn't think you'd want to," he smiled. "Now that you're on your way to stardom."

"Bullshit," I answered. "I just dig the money. He gets anymore deals, you call me. In the meantime . . . "

I didn't have to go any further, for his lips had blocked my mouth. We began tearing at each other's clothing, eager to get down to it.

Once we were stripped down, he began chewing on my titties, making them swell up nice and big. I hadn't had any ass in nearly a week, a record time for me by then, and I was about ready to fucking pop if I didn't get it fast.

He sensed my urgency, rubbing my pussy off nice and fast while he ate my boobs. Once he'd gotten a big fat hard-on, he climbed atop me. I wrapped my legs up around his thighs, and held on, ready for a real good ride.

"Fuck me, Herb," I shouted. "Fuck me good!"

Just like with the photographs, he kept his promise. He screwed me until my eyes crossed, and then he fucked me some more. Doing business with Herbie was turning out to be a real pleasure.