Party Girl

I'll always remember the image. The gate in the privacy fence swinging open and there she was. A shapely blonde silhouetted in the low sun. In the glare I saw her slip a beach towel off her shoulders, bend over, and aim her bikini bottom at me. She laid her designer purse on the cement, arranged her towel on one of the deck chairs as if feathering a nest, and sank down below the sun with reflections off the pool dancing across her body.

I saw her clearly then. I watched her velvety thighs as she laid the chair back and stretched out. Those legs looked young, like they'd never been out in the sun. But they flowed nicely into a fluorescent green triangle that matched the two covering her breasts. I could tell it was one of those pricey suits from the mall, well tailored, like her. I didn't get a good look at her face. Those funky white sunglasses turned to glance at me once – and only once.

I took a breath and went back to the laptop on my own scarcely covered lap. The semester hadn't started yet. I was looking at my courses on-line but I wasn't able to concentrate, not with that long, silky thing across the pool. You just knew she had all the accessories of a rich girl who'd never had to experience real life. I mean, what kind of girl brings a designer purse to sunbathe?

I 'd had enough and closed the laptop, gathered my stuff and shuffled back to the apartment, wondering when my new roommate would show. It all felt a little odd. I'd been out of the loop for two years, trying to "find myself," as my dad used to say and, among other things, I'd discovered I wanted to be in the arts, you know, drama and all. I couldn't get into the big schools, so I ended up at a small college outside of LA. I was a late start. I was a couple years older than other freshmen like my new roommate, but that wasn't going to stop me.

When I moved in there was already stuff in the apartment, so my roomie had already moved in, she just hadn't shown. I thought maybe she wouldn't. I'd have a single! But I couldn't swing the rent all by myself. So as I stood there in my bikini swishing my card through the lock, I hoped she was inside. She wasn't, but I noticed some things had been moved around.

At least the new girl had finally arrived. And now in an ornate gold frame prominently displayed on top of the TV was a smiling young couple – how nice. She looked young to me. Her hair was long and fixed up like she'd been to the prom. Her eyes were bright blue and her cheeks flushed. The guy she was clinging to wasn't bad looking despite his overdone hairdo. But as far as I was concerned he probably didn't deserve her. Or maybe he did. I'd have to wait and see.

My wait ended minutes later when the lock ticked and the door opened. What a shocker: it was her, the blonde girl from the pool, my new roommate. I hadn't recognized her from the picture, but it was her. We stood there strangely speechless in our bikinis, meeting for the first time.

"Oh, hi," she said, "roommate?"

"Marissa," I said, extending my arm.

"I'm Loralie, Loralie Hollingsworth," she said, pulling off her sunglasses.

"Nice to meet you," I said, extending a limp hand as she set aside that gaudy purse. "Guess we both like to hang out by the pool."

"Oh, was that you?" she said, taking my hand for an obligatory second.

"Yeah, that was me."

"So, when did you get here?"

"Last week."

"Uh huh," she said, glancing briefly at my exposed torso, then at my laptop on the counter. "You're not studying already, are you?"

"Just surfing," I answered.

"What?" she called, retreating into the bedroom.

Loralie pushed the door halfway closed and I heard the shower come on. I guess I was sort of disappointed then. She wasn't exactly my type, and she didn't seem at all interested in me. I pulled a barstool up to the laptop and went back to surfing my courses. What if I was studying already?

I knew I wouldn't be able to do much of anything tomorrow – I'd be busy. The director had told me some members were coming in for the shoot, and that could always turn out to be sort of a creepy thing. I mean, sure, they were creepy enough just to look at, most of them, but when you had to stand there in all your glory and sign stuff for them and act like you loved doing it, well that wasn't something I looked forward to. And if any of them tried to hug me – or worse – it would just make me cringe. We all complained about having to "stroke members," but the couple of times I had to do it I think it affected me more than the others. But I had to play along, or start flipping burgers.

Otherwise it wasn't a bad gig, and I arrived that day ready to give a flawless performance so I could get my check and get out.

"Got your form?" said one of the hands.

Instantly I realized I had, of course, forgotten the form that would clear me to work. That was bad 'cause I'd never forgotten before and I didn't know if they'd let me work without it. And even worse, the form was still where I'd left it days ago, on the dresser in the bedroom I was now sharing with Loralie. I offered to call the lab but was told they wouldn't release the information over the phone. I was really busted but because I'd been working for awhile, or maybe because the director liked me, I was able to persuade them by promising to bring the form in the next day. It wasn't going to be easy, juggling work and school, especially doing this kind of work and rooming with a prom queen.

I walked into the dressing room, not knowing who I'd have to face. It didn't really matter, but I had my favorites. The makeup lights were already blazing but no one was there in front of the mirrors except me. I don't know why, but the glare reminded me again of Loralie with the sun behind her that day at the pool.

As I unbuttoned my denim blouse, she walked in, my "opponent" that is. It was "Cyberia," one of the Russians. I didn't really know her, but I'd heard she was beat pretty regularly. So at least I knew she wasn't going to take things too seriously, like that Mongolian, or whatever she was, the one I'd heard was getting off on kicking the girls around. One girl got a broken leg, snapped like a pencil when the Mongol jumped on her. Maybe our producer thought the members liked that kind of action, but a bitch like that was going to run out of opponents fast.

"Heard about your form," Cyberia mumbled, pulling off her tube top, uncovering a thick push-up bra. Dark hair bracketed Cyberia's face. She had an upturned nose, thin eyebrows and cool eyes. She was a little underweight though. The shoot would be easy, I told myself, hanging my blouse in the locker behind me. I just wished we got paid for winning.

"Don't worry, I've been cleared," I said. I unzipped my faded shorts and let them fall. Then I kicked them up into my hand.

"I'm not worried," she said, whipping her bra off of breasts that perched instead of hung on her.

Mine bounced out of my bra, eager I suppose, and twice her size, well, maybe. "You know we're stroking some members today, don't you." I advised.

"I heard. Doesn't bother me, does it you?"

"No," I said, trying to convince us both, "it's just a job."

We peeled our panties off as if on cue. Cyberia turned to me, saying, "OK, let's do it."

I felt silly thinking she wasn't talking about the shoot. I waited for her to pick her bikini out of the locker before I snuck a look. She was shaved clean and looked younger that way. At least my muscles were toned up so I looked halfway athletic, not like I was in junior high. But I supposed the members liked that about her. I smiled back as we finished putting our micro-bikinis on.

Cyberia followed me through the gray metal door at the end of the hallway. Hot light flooded over us as we entered the little arena. The director was there with an assistant and three camera persons at their posts, two against the back wall and one rover looking for good angles. Beyond the floor was the usual audience – a smattering of off-duty employees and their guests who were there just to "make it real" with cheers and catcalls for atmosphere. There were a few claps as we entered – "premature clapulation" we called it.

Hiding somewhere in that audience were the three visiting members who I hoped were not any of my "owners," that is, members who'd bought on-line credits and used them to "own" part of me and whose bank would rise or fall depending on how I did in my matches. They were the ones you really had to keep happy 'cause they were spending boatloads of money "investing" in you and management obviously wanted to make sure they kept it up, so to speak.

We stood there making small talk and doing some stretching exercises, waiting for them to call us on. I never got nervous or anything. Some girls would freak out, especially the first time they actually stepped out into the lights, knowing they couldn't hide anything from the cameras. I guess they just couldn't stand the exposure – ha-ha – but I never let myself think about that.

I was starting to feel a little caffeinated when they called us. We walked out to the center of the floor, Cyberia in her blue bikini and I in my red one, the strings bow-tied in the middle of our backs and on each hip. I wasn't all that tan, but standing next to me Cyberia looked like an ice statue. We were perfect opposites, her paleness and the darker Hispanic features of my Mexican ancestry. My hair was long and straight. My face was long too. And my mother always said my eyes were like "black diamonds" inherited from my great, great grandfather who was Navajo.

The referee standing in the other backstage doorway approached us and held our wrists. He announced our names, raising our arms up in turn, and the tiny crowd clapped impartially. He didn't state the rules, like they do in boxing. As far as I knew, the rules were unwritten – no punching, kicking, scratching – that sort of thing. Too many scratches and bruises meant you couldn't work till they healed, for aesthetic, not medical, reasons. Then there was the other unwritten rule: it really didn't matter who won. Except that more and more it seemed that girls were realizing it really did matter.

We separated and the ref whistled to start the match. I was thinking about how long it was going to take to subdue her, when suddenly I was on my back! Cyberia had lunged at my ankles and all I could do was fall back on my butt. What the ----? I'd never seen that one. Then she threw her body on top of mine so hard the wind rushed out of me. I tried to roll but she pressed her body flat against mine and pinned me down against the mat. I thrust my pelvis against hers a couple of times to try and slide out from under her. Her lower body lifted into the air as if she was riding a bull, giving me the break I needed. I suppose the spectators were cheering but during shoots I was never really aware of anything but the action.

We ended up perpendicular with Cyberia's chest across mine. Then she reached for my crotch. That was how you scored points. You groped your opponent's boobs, fingered her crotch, and got her in a submissive position and held her there – not to be confused with real wrestling. Everything we did was supposed to be sexy and titillating and that's what you had to think about out there. It wasn't about wrestling, though some of the members were so deluded they thought it was, just like the so-called professional wrestling you see on TV. But it was really all about members getting off in the privacy of their own homes by watching women that most of them would have no chance of ever seeing naked in real life. And while I was happy to help those pathetic guys, and girls too by the way, I really didn't care what I was being used for. I just liked performing, but most of all, the money.

I could feel Cyberia's long fingers slip under my bikini bottom and paw at the little triangle of velvet I'd left there. She'd probably get a point for that, but points were really the last thing on my mind. The problem always was, no matter how many points you got, the show had to go on, and on, for about 20 minutes so once the video was edited and the different camera angles mixed in there'd be enough for the members to drool over. So you couldn't really go crazy and wrestle hard 'cause you'd either start sweating buckets under the hot lights, burn yourself out and just be lying there like dead meat at the end, or you'd get hurt. So you learned to be "passive-aggressive."

Apparently no one mentioned that to Cyberia, because she was like a maniac on me. I guess she wasn't satisfied with pawing my pubes because she grabbed one of my legs and used it to ratchet herself around until all I could see was her blue bikini bottom in my face and her skinny thighs wrapped around my head! I tried to thrust upward to dislodge her and slip out like before, but it only made things worse. My head rose between her thighs enough that she was able to slip them under my jaw and tighten them around my neck. When she did that it really ticked me off. Then she was jerking the strings of my bikini bottom to rip it off. The suits barely tied on 'cause they were supposed to come off during the match. But all she did was stretch it and pull the knots tighter, giving me a wedgie.

I could feel my face getting hot and red with those thighs clamping my neck like that. Where was Cyberia getting these moves? And also – why? Whatever, I said, pushing my hands under her hips and trying to push her pelvis up and off me. She wouldn't budge. Now I was really angry at this girl. She needed to lighten up. But then it hit me: my wiry opponent hadn't been winning, and her stock was way down. That's it – management must've told her to get tough or get out. She couldn't just lie there and look sexy anymore. She had to make a big splash to try and get members interested in her. If she didn't, she wasn't going to be collecting any more of those adorable little four-figure checks that made us all willing to put up with the downside.

Of course, I wanted to win too. I kept thrashing around underneath her but I couldn't get her off me. Then I felt her fumbling around down there again. My bikini had slid down to where it was just laying like a wadded rag across me. Cyberia went for another score. Her fingers dove inside me and started rocking back and forth so fast my clit felt as hot and red as my face. Where was the ref? I wanted to yell "Take it easy!" But that was a no-no, a showstopper after which the whole crew would treat you like crap. But we were only supposed to make it look like it hurt, especially at the end of the match when the winner got to victimize the loser.

I was getting hurt and couldn't do anything about it. I had to stay calm and think my way out of this. I had to get her off of me, or she was either going to choke me or burn my clitoris off 'cause this crazy Russian just wasn't letting up. I started twisting and thrusting my legs up into the air and she rode me like a slut. Then her body rose enough for me to reach around her ribs and underneath for her boobs. I wasn't trying to score points. I just wanted to give them a shot that would cause her to lay off me. I timed it right and got my fingers over her bikini top and squeezed.

Cyberia flinched and her thighs flew apart, freeing me. I just pushed her aside and got back on my feet. As I did, my red bikini bottom slid down to my ankles. I just stepped out of it with one foot and kicked it across the mat with the other. Cyberia's bottom had also come undone and she did the same thing. Her eyes were like blue flames staring at me. Her face was hot, and this was the first time I'd wanted a shoot to end prematurely. We stood there bottomless, our tops still in place, eying each other and wondering what next.

I expected her to pull out all the stops then, but she didn't. We grappled awhile and scored on each other but I guess the tweaking I gave her got her mind straight and she realized she could hurt too. I hadn't kept track, but when the match ended she was up by one stupid point. So now I was going to have to be her bitch as we did what's called the "after-match" where the winner gets to dominate the loser and punish her however she wants. I reminded myself it was all an act, just for show, but I thought I saw those flames coming up in Cyberia's eyes as she got the win. I hoped she was just happy to win for a change, and that she'd forgotten my little love squeeze.

While Cyberia strapped on the dildo, a small, pink one, I assumed the customary position: down on all fours at the center of the mat. The thing was, I was already sore from her fingering me and I just wasn't into getting that strap-on jammed into me, especially by a girl who might be bent on revenge. I turned my head to see if I could sense anything as she approached. Cyberia just looked at me through slits in her eyes.

She straddled me and sat on my back, then grabbed a handful of the hair at the back of my head and jerked my head back. Usually the victor would berate the victim, call her a slut and so forth, again all part of the show, but Cyberia was Russian and probably didn't know much English. Anyway, she didn't say a word as she untied my bikini top and threw it on the floor. The notion of her taking out her frustrations on me flashed across my mind and I even felt a twinge in my nipples as they dangled there awaiting judgment. But then she lowered herself off me into position behind my butt. The pink-plastic rod felt cold as it penetrated. It was wet but still my whole body shivered as she drove it deep. She slammed me with it until she got tired, I guess, but it didn't really faze me much after the initial shock. The audience got its "bang for the buck" and I hoped that was it, but I braced myself in case she wasn't finished with me.

Then she got back on me and I got this weird feeling like something fluttering around inside me, but not butterflies. It was like something eating at my core. I just wanted to go home. I felt her fingertips fasten around my nipples then, and she pulled them straight down – like she was milking me or something – and I mean she jerked on them and it really hurt. I felt like bucking her butt off and kicking the bitch senseless but I was hurt and exhausted. Still I stood up and protested, "Hey!" I had to. I couldn't take it. The referee grabbed me and kept me away from her. I heard the crowd was cheering.

That bitch. What was she thinking? It felt like somebody had wrung my nipples out like a washrag. I'd never let her do that to me again. I headed for the backstage door, but the director yelled and reminded me that we had guests in the audience. Damn it! I'd forgotten all about that. I thought about bolting out of there, but knew I'd probably not be allowed back.

So I had to stand there with Cyberia, as the director guided the three members out of their seats and over to us. I just ignored her and stood there, totally naked, my nipples aching so much my eyes were tearing up and my legs shaking like they'd crumble beneath me at any moment.

The three members finally reached us and they were like blobs of putty, giddy and blubbering as they snuck glances at our bodies. They wanted talk, and autographs on a bunch of promotional items they'd been given, but all I heard was bla-bla-bla. I wiped a tear from the corner of one eye and tried to smile my way through it. The director finally pried them away, but one came toward me with open arms. I hated being pawed but I would've given him that hug under normal circumstances. But now my nipples were so sensitive I didn't even know how I was going to put on a blouse – forget a bra – to get home. So I just put my arms out and patted his shoulders so he couldn't get too close.