Chapter 6

I didn't hear anything else from Herb during the next few months, so I figured that the whole thing had been a big come-on. I could have used the money, but I wasn't about to call him. That would make me look too eager.

I kept checking out the issues of Pussy, just to see if I'd made the centerfold, but so far nothing. I didn't realize that they published several months in advance, but I did see that the March issue, for instance, hit the stands in February. I just didn't know that much about the industry at the time, so I just kept checking it out, feeling rather peculiar looking through a man's magazine at the stands like that.

The issues I did see seemed rather tacky to me, nothing like the Playboy's I'd seen. Of course, Herb had said they were working their way up, but from the tasteless photos they showed of really loser chicks, I felt they had a long way to go. Maybe Herb had just been shitting me about the sale . . . although he had come across with the bread. But the centerfold bit-judging from the issues of Pussy, I'd seen, I was glad I'd changed my name just in case they did use the photos.

And then, sometime in April, I was walking past the newsstand and saw that a new Pussy had come out. I was amazed-the whole cover had changed. Herb was right, they were going for a different, slicker approach. Even the price had changed. It seemed to me that the issue was even located in a more prominent position on the newsstand, but I wasn't really sure.

And then I checked the cover and saw the name: Donna Morris, right on the cover. They hadn't put the centerfold's name on the cover before. They were also featuring a lot of articles and things on the cover, really making a run at Playboy's money.

This time I bought it . . . I should say two copies, just in case I should lose one. Not that I'd be showing this to the kids someday, or anything like that. But it might be my only claim to fame, something I could keep hidden away just to remind me that I had a real eye-catching figure once when I got old.

When I got home, I thumbed through it, finding it in much better taste than before. They'd done a real big layout on me, the centerfold just showed me in front of the backdrop in blue lighting . . . an artier shot than they'd used before, but still not really classy. I had the sheet draped up to cover my snatch, and they'd done a lot of airbrushing, but it could have been worse.

I laughed when I read the story about me, as if I were another person or something. That's the first time I became aware of the way the media can distort things. Now when I read about something I've supposedly done, I don't get so upset.

They really did feature me, even printing 'Miss May,' on the page. So I was Miss May . . . and it was only April. I'd have to make it in a hurry -Miss June would be published soon. Still, it was kind of an ego-trip.

I went about the house, picking up and wondering what a pinup queen like me was doing there, then the phone rang. It was Herb. He let me bask in the limelight, not forgetting to mention that he'd gotten photo credits.

"Oh, one thing," he added almost in passing. "Mr. Baljoni wanted your phone number. I'm not sure if it's O.K., but I gave it to him. Hope you don't mind."

I didn't really have anything I could do about it anyway, since he'd already given it to him. I assured him that it was all right, wondering just what it was he wanted with me. After all, he'd featured me in his first new-improved issue.

"Let me know what he says," Herb said dejectedly. "I mean, don't forget about me."

Now I see what he was getting at. Obviously, Ralph Baljoni wanted to get in touch with me without having to involve Herb. Herb was reacting to a situation he couldn't do anything about, and I felt sorry for him. I assured him that I'd let him know, telling Herb that it probably wasn't anything important.

I'll have to admit, I sort of got off to that publicity, realizing that men all over the country were getting it off after pictures of me. It was a trip to know that Mr. Baljoni wanted to get in touch with me-who knows, maybe I'd get some more work from him . . . movies, oh shit, was I ever dreaming.

I got sort of a kick out of walking to work the next day, sizing guys up and wondering if they realized they were looking at Pussy's Miss May when they passed. But was I ever surprised when I got into the office. They had a centerfold pinned to the bulletin board. It was really weird.

"Donna Morris, sure!" the boss said, eyeing me in a way he never had before, even though he'd been caught sneaking a glance before all the publicity.

Only the way he looked at me now made me feel positively naked, the way he'd look at me, then the picture, then me.

"Why didn't you tell us you were such a big star?" another guy I worked with laughed as he punched the time clock.

I took a lot of ribbing, some of it serious, for the next few days. Especially over the copy-they were forever reading me the part about my college days, and that I liked Bach and the Beatles, that kind of crap. But it was all pretty good natured, and the clamor died down after a week.

I still hadn't heard from Mr. Baljoni after nearly a month, and was beginning to believe it would never happen. I'd gotten my hopes up too high, I decided. Miss May would be the highlight of my life. I vowed to start taking up the camera again myself, chiding myself as I looked at my unused Minolta. Work was all right, as far as work goes, but it was getting to be a bit of a drag. It certainly wasn't the way I wanted to spend the rest of my life, that was for sure.

One day I'd stayed home from work, pleading illness as an excuse. Actually, I wanted to take a day off and go to the beach with a boyfriend of mine, a guy named Mario who worked at nights as a computer programmer.

We got back from the beach around three in the afternoon, and had a few drinks, the plan being to barbeque up a couple of steaks later on. But before I got a chance to make it to the shower, Mario's strong hands were around me and the game was on. Mario was one good screw, and I never turned down a roll in the hay with him, I can tell you.

"Mmmmmmm, Baby," I moaned as he pushed me down atop the bed and began to pull off the bottom of my bikinis. I helped him out, stripping off the top myself, while he struggled out of his swimming trunks. He had a beautiful erection, and I knew just what to do with that. I put it in my mouth and began to blow and suck on it. He managed to work his way around so he was facing my feet and began to eat out my box.

We got really involved in our sixty-nine scene, scarfing on each other like mad. I had now sucked the shaft of his cock into his mouth and was really going to town, my head bobbing up and down, while he ate away at me with full force, lapping alternately at my pussy and my clit.

I ran my finger up his asshole, knowing how that turned him on, and he really started fucking my face. But he didn't miss a beat at my cunt, lapping and sucking me until the heat was really building up inside me.

We came just about the same time, Mario blowing his lunch into my hungry mouth in great spurts, his balls quivering in pleasure. I went through a somewhat less intense orgasm, relaxing and getting into the good feeling as his slippery cock, still dripping come, slid out of my mouth.

Just then, I became aware of a jangling intrusion. Looking around and gathering my senses, I realized it was the phone. Groggily, I picked it up.

"Miss Morris?" the voice came. At least it wasn't work.

"No. . . . there's no Miss Morris here," I managed.

"Well, maybe you could help me. I'm Mr. Baljoni's secretary at Pussy magazine and . . . "

Suddenly it all flashed in. Miss Morris was Miss May was ME. They wanted to see me. My mind came around fast as I jotted down the address, promising to be there at five tomorrow. I'd be able to get off early, even though I'd taken today off, I vowed. Otherwise, I'd take down my picture they goggled at all the time.