The Industry

Warning: Contains discussions of Sexual Themes, Substance Abuse and Suicide

‘CUT!’ Staltari yelled, whirling his fingers in the air. ‘Somebody get me a cigarette! And throw Mel a towel - hell knows Anthony ain’t gonna do it!’

Melissa lay on the bed, frozen. The cameras were off but the bright set lights still bore their heat down on every inch of her exposed skin. With her ample breasts, round hips and flat stomach, she knew men found her attractive – desirable even, as the sales punters would spin it. It was The Industry’s criteria to be so after all - heck, even the quivering look on Anthony’s face during entry had told her as much. And, what his face didn’t articulate, his grabby, rough hands did soon after.

It was a pity the mirror didn’t see her the same way.

Was it all worth it? She thought for the umpteenth time, lying there with a mess of Anthony’s doing. Last week it had been guy named Jarrod leaving his mess; the week before that, a Puerto Rican dude named Marcus. The weeks before that, she couldn’t even remember, not anymore. Sometimes it was with a guy, sometimes it was with a girl. Irrespective of her sexuality, “straight” was only a word used by those who don’t want to get paid.

She had learned long ago that The Industry didn’t care about what you’d been told the week before or what your contract had agreed upon.

 If you wanted to get the gold, you did what you were told.

“It’s a free country” was worthless when they withheld payment.

“It won’t kill you” was another mantra of encouragement, often used to get her into uncomfortable, unnatural positions. It was also the singular statement she vehemently disagreed with – on more than one occasion, the abnormal size and instinctive thrusting of The Industry’s male talent had choked her to the point of having to tap out.

Anthony had been one of these dog-rollers and - despite the intimate discomfort of squeezing something obscenely large into a smaller cavity – the Director had fortunately instructed Anthony to do exactly that. Whether it was a mild case of Stockholm Syndrome or not, she had silently thanked Staltari as the cameras rolled, bracing herself against the bedframe as Anthony entered her orbit.

Like most males in The Industry – and probably most in general – Anthony’s muscled, sweaty body had removed itself from hers almost as soon as he was done, leaving Melissa “Scarlette Star” Robins objectified once more. Stark naked and tender, laying here at the end of a shoot were the moments she hated herself the most.

During the shoot itself, her mind went to her happy place. It hadn’t taken her long to learn that a quick line of coke before dropping her panties was the quickest way to get there though. After a hit, it was easier; she would obligingly go where the Director required her, hand her co-star the reins to her body and let them do whatever The Industry saw fit. She only prayed that the high would last longer than the shoot.

Praying.

Not that God was anywhere on the set of a Staltari production, mind you.

How could He be?

Mel sighed as she clambered off the bed. Reaching for a towel carelessly tossed to her by a production assistant, she wiped herself as much as she could before grabbing her clothes, instinctively covering herself and heading toward the showers.

They’ve seen more of you than you have, Mel. Why are you covering?

‘Next week’s gonna be a big one, Mel.’ The production manager stood to the side of the shower, leaning against the cubicle door. ‘We have you down for a group shoot.’

Melissa’s heart sank. She ran her fingers through her hair, closing her eyes and letting the water spill over her face.

‘The scene is a football team’s aftergame party,’ the manager continued, tapping her pen against the side of the clipboard. ‘They’ve won the game, see, and – as we all know – what better way to celebrate a win than a group activity involving their favourite cheerleader. It’s not worth an Emmy nomination, sure, but – well, you know nobody actually watches this stuff for the plot.’

How many showers would it take to wash it all away?

She crossed her arms over her chest, holding her shoulders tightly as tiny drops of water pooled warmly in the nook of her arms and against her breasts. She took a deep breath - steadied her voice - and asked, ‘…how many?’

‘A full team, Mel.’ The manager answered without hesitation. ‘Eleven excited guys.’

Melissa swallowed. Her fingers bit into her shoulders. ‘Eleven? Any other cheerleaders helping in the scene?’

‘Sorry honey,’ The cubicle wall squeaked as the manager stood up and walked to the door. ‘You’ll be servicing these boys on your own. The other cheerleaders will be there, but they’ll only be baring breasts and cheering you on as per the script. Oh and – ’ The manager paused. The pen-tapping increased. ‘– there’s a likely chance the coach will be joining in the festivities.’

Melissa felt her eyes welling. ‘…who’s the coach?’

‘Not sure yet,’ the manager said. ‘But to keep things authentic, he has to be experienced. Staltari’s instructed casting to scout someone over seventy. Might be a bit on the older side for a football coach realistically, but – well, you know how Staltari is. He wants it to appeal to some of the more senior viewers, catch their niche. According to the script though, Young Scarlette Star will be doing everything she can to make an old man happy.’

Melissa hung her head as the manager left the bathroom, her blond hair falling past her face as her tears joined the cascading water.

The bus ride back to Hampsden Apartments was always melancholy for her. It was a moment of deep thought, staring at her partial reflection and wondering if anyone else out there felt as vile and used as she did. Normal folk bustling on the sidewalks, in and out of coffee shops while working their standard 9-5s. Not much in the way of earnings, but so much more in the way of meaning.

She envied them.

Approached on the sidewalk at the age of nineteen for a simple photo shoot, the money had been the hook; standing around in her jeans and t-shirt, pouting for the camera with a face as pretty as hers, it had been the easiest grand she’d ever made. It had certainly beaten the weekly wage she got from waiting tables.

When asked to come back a second time and remove a few layers of clothing, it had seemed simple enough, the money even better. Her folks would never see the photos anyway, she was assured; it was just for the photographer’s own personal collection. He had shown her other tastefully staged shots to ease her mind – Artistic Nudes, he had called them.

When she had been asked to have sex on camera after the photos had been taken, the mood had changed. She had politely refused and laughed it off, covering her bare breasts while reaching for her bra and shirt. The photographer hadn’t returned the smile; instead, he had blackmailed her, threatening to post the photos to social media unless she did as she was asked. He had said all this while undoing his belt.

So, she had relented.

At the time, her body count had been a modest two. Six months in The Industry and her body count was well into triple digits.

The bus route to Hampsden took commuters past a bustling, joyful playground. It was always a scene of joy and laughter, a mocking mirror of a world that wasn’t her own.

It was the part of the commute that hurt her the most.

It was the part that reminded her of Olly.

How long has it been?

Six years. Or was it seven?

Does he ask about me? Does he know who I am?

She supposed he would still be borderline too young to know what adoption was. When he did know, would he want anything to do with her anyway? Would he like to know the fact that he was a by-product discarded by The Industry? That he was nothing more than a workplace accident?

The problem of taking contraception religiously while in a drug-filled haze – aka her happy place ­– was a very real one. Olly had been the mistake-

You’re the mistake.

- which she’d remedied as best she could by making sure to grind up her pills during a sober moment and mix them through her coffee powder. Then it became a problem of making sure she had a coffee first thing in the morning.

But that was hardly a problem: Coffee and cocaine went hand in hand.

It was breakfast that was optional.

She had often thought about which co-star had fathered Olly. Each time she did she ended up at the same sad conclusion: without blanket DNA testing, it would be impossible to tell. She didn't remember any of their faces or names and - with the amount of men that borrowed her body monthly - it was like searching for a needle in a haystack.

A Pregnancy in a Porn Shoot.

In the drug-addled mind of a younger Scarlette Star, abortion had been off the table; it was not a card she had been willing to play.

Yet, despite the growing of her belly, she still starred in films for The Industry. She had become a fetish, fitting into a specific category for viewers inclined to that sort of thing. The more her belly grew, the more niche she became, the more men she slept with.

And then, Olly had been born.

That was when The Industry tightened the screws.

No stretch marks.

No saggy breasts.

No baby fat.

If she wanted the money to pay for her habits, she’d have to play by their rules.

First kid’s on the house, honey. After that, get back to work.

The Industry had put abortion back on the table. It had been a card she'd been forced to play on several pregnancies since.

The bus stopped at the corner of her avenue and the door opened, letting in the chilly evening breeze. Shifting her handbag higher on her shoulder, she crossed her arms against the cold as she hopped off, flinching as her forearms pressed on her tender breasts; Anthony had a reputation amongst the women for being heavy handed with female anatomy, a fact she could now attest to. It didn’t take a psychic to know he had enjoyed Scarlette Star a great deal.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, she hung her head, not looking up or at anyone as she climbed the stairs up to her unit. Despite the overcoat she was wearing, the gaze of passersby always made her feel paranoid and naked.

As Mellissa Robbins entered her apartment, she put her handbag on the bench and turned on the radio.

Depression by Dax was playing:

“I can’t find myself…

I get lost inside my brain...”

Why does it have to be a group session next week? Melissa thought, fresh tears welling in her eyes as she sat at the kitchen bench.

The thought of being thrown around by eleven girthy men sent her groin into a dull throb. It wasn’t sexy or any girl’s fantasy; it was painful and abusive.

And then to toss in the coach? An old man getting his rocks off with a woman young enough to be his granddaughter?

It was humiliating and revolting.

And for what? So the video could tick over into another category? So it could cater to – what had Staltari called it? – his mature viewers?

She hung her head and cried.

An object of The Industry was all that she was. Property of a Powerhouse. She was what married men fantasized over and teenage boys rubbed their bits to.

“I think I might need help…

But I pushed all of ‘em away.”

The Industry was evil, there was no denying it. Everything it did was superficial and callous, destructive and objective; all in its own interests. The latest PR doing the rounds had been the slogan Ethical Pornography.

Ethical.

What a joke.

“I took the cards they dealt…

and there’s nothin’ I can change…”

Nothing I can change, Dax?

No, that wasn’t true. She could change it.

And she would.

Reaching into her cocaine stash behind an outdated cereal box, she pulled out the last bag.

There was enough to last her a week.

Enough till her next video.

Or…there was enough to make today’s the last video.

"So when I’m by myself...”

She could hear it in Dax' voice: he knew it. He knew what she felt, the emptiness, the worthlessness. She was nothing more than a stain on this earth, a homewrecker, an objectified fantasy.

Scarlette Star wasn’t real.

I wish I wasn’t either.

She poured the cocaine out onto the bench and split it into lines.

She rolled up a piece of cardboard.

She slid the tube into her nostril, as deep as it could go. She exhaled deeply, then leant forward and –

Knock, knock.

She paused, funnel hovering just over the top of the white mound.

No one visited her. Ever.

“I've been anchored in pain,

the weight is makin' me choke.

It's gettin' harder to breathe,

it's pullin' right at my throat.”

‘Yeah, Dax.’ She sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks. It was hard to keep the tube steady as her hands begun to shake. ‘You know of what you speak.’

Knock, knock.

Mel hesitated. Then with unsteady fingers, she placed the cardboard roll to the side and stood up from the kitchen bench.

The coke wasn't going anywhere.

Tugging her shirt sleeves into the heel of her palms, she dabbed at her eyes as she shuffled toward the door.

Gently, she pulled it open.

‘Hi there.’

An attractive woman, elegant, with curly hair and glasses stood at the doorstep. She looked like a business executive and – for a second – Mel wondered if she wasn’t a recruiter for The Industry herself.

Then she saw the cross pinned to her lapel.

Yet, the woman looked familiar...

‘I’m sorry, but I’m not interested,’ Mel said, clearing her throat to hold back the tears. ‘I’m a little bit busy at the moment, so, whatever it is you’re selling –’

Without warning, the woman stepped forward and embraced Mel. ‘I know who you are, Miss Scarlette Star.’ She spoke softly in Mel’s ear. ‘But more importantly - I know where you are.’

The words broke something in Melissa’s dam. Torrential tears poured down her cheeks as she sobbed into the shoulder of the warm stranger, writhing to get free.

Despite her lithe figure, the woman’s embrace remained firm.

‘I was once standing where you are, a slave to The Industry.’ The woman whispered in her ear, rubbing Mel’s back. ‘And then someone extended a hand to me too.’

A former actress.

In a pivotal moment, Mel returned the strangers embrace. She clung to the woman desperately with all she had, her chest heaving with each sob.

‘The Industry takes everything.’ The woman cooed softly. ‘But I know Someone who can give it back. Please, let me take you out for a coffee. You look like you need to talk.’

Drifting through the doorway, past the embracing women, Dax finished his song:

"...I just pray for brighter days...”