(This is an old, very true story of mine. I am releasing it in 3 parts. Enjoy.)
In their minds, everybody has their ideal "dream job" in which they get to do everything that makes them happy - and get paid for it. Its a job that your friends hate you for having it; where you do hardly anything and get paid a comfortable salary doing it. What's your dream job? Video game tester? Esteemed food critic? The guy responsible for perking up a celebrity's nipples before she goes onto a movie set? (They do exist.) Well, I once got mine, and I'm here to say that it was both everything I ever wanted it to be with a whole lot of shit I didn't expect.
The Interview
The lead was inconspicuous; an ad on craigslist seeking a webmaster for an established website. All the normal nerdy requirements, which I met, were there. The starting pay was more than I had made at my previous job. There was one rare detail that caught my attention for a moment; to work for this company, I had to be over the age of 18 and open to viewing material that may be offensive. Check and check. I eagerly sent in my resume for consideration.
Two weeks later, I received a response. This guy by the name of Matt wanted to know when I could come in for an interview, and he also wanted to clarify, one more time, that I was indeed open to viewing offensive material. We agreed to a date for the interview and I got excited. I hadn't been to an interview in a couple years, so I polled my friends for tips. They all chimed in with suggestions to prepare me for the barrage of questions that was about to come my way. One friend gave me a seemingly clever idea that the most important thing to have during an interview is a pair of nice shoes.
The day of the interview arrived and I showed up at a high class apartment building in Hollywood wearing a silk dress shirt, a nice pair of slacks and the same shoes I had worn to my prom. I left my car at the free valet and headed up the elevator toward my glistening destiny.
I was greeted at the door by a girl who I would later know as Raluca. For the moment, though, she was "fucking hot." Passing behind her in the hallway as I stood in the doorway was Ginger (also fucking hot); she waved and greeted me. Raluca invited me in with her sexy British accent and I helplessly complied.
"Matt will be back in about ten minutes. He went down to grab some coffee. Have a seat. Get comfortable."
Raluca lead me into the large living room of the apartment and gestured toward a red satin couch, then disappeared into another room. Unbeknown to me, this was THE red couch. I sat down on it without a thought. Had I been more conscious of what a couch was used for in this industry, I would have been more reluctant to get as comfortable as I did. I sat there and let my eyes drift around the room. Another girl appeared, Gia, and greeted me as she quickly left the apartment. I began to get suspicious about all of these fleeting glimpses that I was getting. I decided to pay more attention; I wasn’t going to let anything in this interview catch me off guard or distract me.
I resolved to remain stoic in the face of all the delicious sights flashing from room to room. Surely my ability to remain professional in the face of all this temptation would be a virtue. This delicate thread of concentration remained taut for only a minute more, until my eyes found something I couldn’t quite process. On the tiny glass-top table not four feet from me stood a large flesh-colored dildo about fourteen inches tall. I paused to contemplate its existence for a moment. Raluca emerged again as I was trying to decide if staring at the dildo was considered rude or not.
"Oh, I'm sorry. How improper." She rushed over and picked up the silicone phallus from the table. A loud, sharp *pop* resounded in my ears as the suction cup on the bottom released its grip on the glass. My concentration was lost. She gave an exasperated giggle as she scurried back to the shelter of that damn room.
"Awkward," I thought to myself.
Not a moment later, Matt made his entrance. He carried with him three large (sorry... Venti) drinks from Starbucks. He was, by all considerations, just an average guy. He had no strange quirks or mannerisms. He was not soft, abrasive, loud or quiet. He was a normal, completely regular guy. We introduced ourselves quickly and settled down to the moment I had been preparing for: the interview.
"So, uh, when do you think you could start?"
My Job Description
My job by itself was nothing special. It was the context I did it in that made it worthy of this write-up. Matt was a photographer who took amateur-style (read: no technique at all) digital photographs of hot naked girls stripping off their clothes, posing provocatively, and spreading their labia for all the world to view. Along with all the standard programming, design and maintenance, it was my burden to select the best photographs from the sets that he shot and update the site with them. I worked in the living room, where most of the action took place. Not only did I get to be there when these photo shoots took place, I got to stare at these naked pictures for hours afterward.
Now, I know what's going through your mind right now. How could I possibly work that job without walking around all day sporting one of Egypt's pyramids in my pants? Well, you may be a little disenchanted to learn that one can get quite desensitized to sights most men can only fantasize about. They can even become repulsive.
Imagine this schedule: Every week, we shot two brand-new girls. For each girl, Matt took about 500 photos. It was my job to whittle those 500 down to half that amount so that they formed two different sets with different outfits and different poses. There were to be no duplicates, no bad angles, no awkward poses or facial expressions, and nothing that might cause our dear sweet subscribers to hurl all over their keyboards. (I've never vomited while masturbating, have you?) I was the filter.
I'm not sure if anyone can necessarily sympathize with me, but looking at porn all day is tough. Especially if it's porn where half of it is never meant to be seen again. Months into my job, I began to suspect I was suffering from synaesthesia. I would close up my nose as I shuffled through what we called the "pink shots," as the sight of a vagina stretched to the size of my computer screen would tease my senses with the imagined scent of a wet dog. It was in those same months that I learned what a yeast infection actually LOOKS like. I consider myself lucky to have grown up around three vocal women who held little back about what was going on with their bodies, otherwise such sights would have had me thinking twice about this wonderful job.
Still, I was there for all the photo shoots and I got to talk with the models. What more could a guy ask for?
Part 2 tomorrow...
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