Say what you will about the low production values in porn, they don't skimp when it comes to catering. An elaborate spread of fruits, pastries and cold cuts were laid out for the cast and crew, and they took to it like vultures on a dead horse.

I sat at an empty booth and picked at my food, making notes in my script. Not that I expected to be welcomed with open arms, but a nod in my direction would have been nice. But their complete disregard made it painfully clear that they wanted nothing to do with me.

As much as I pretended not to care, it really bothered me. It was one thing to stand at a safe distance and feel superior to the poor, pitiful losers who make their living in porn. It's another to be openly shunned by them. And their rejection only made them that much more appealing to me. I wanted to be a part of their inner circle, to be included in their inside jokes, to share in their familiar camaraderie, if only for a few hours.

"Anybody sitting here?" I heard a voice ask. I was so caught up in my own thoughts that it took me a moment to realize this question was directed at me. I looked up and saw a completely naked woman standing in front of me. She was a pretty brunette, skinny and athletic, with a tan like shellacked wood. But her most predominant feature was her enormous chest, which seemed to inhabit its own area code.

"No, not at all," I said, with just a bit too much enthusiasm. "Go right ahead."

She sat down next to me and began picking at her food, nibbling on a piece of cauliflower like she intended to make it last for hours. "My name's Ginger," she said. "Aren't we working together today?"

I was going to tell her no, she must have mistaken me for somebody else. But at the last minute, I thought better of it. Each time I'd admitted to being a writer, I was greeted with cold stares and outright animosity. Just once I wanted to be perceived as something other than an outsider.

"I think so," I said.

"You're the new kid, right? Felipe or something?"

"Felipe, that's right," I said, wondering if it was too late to start using an accent.

"It's great to finally meet you. I've heard a lot of great things."

She winked at me, smiling with such reassuring tenderness that it almost made me weep.

"Are you still looking for an apartment?" she asked.

"Oh yeah. No luck yet." So far this was easy enough, just so long as she kept asking questions that required a simple yes or no response.

"If you need a place to stay, you can crash on my couch," she offered.

I thanked her, and she returned to her meal. I tried to avert my eyes from her nudity, but it was a losing battle. I wasn't accustomed to prolonged exposure to female breasts, much less when they were so casually displayed. I began reading my script again, if only so I had something distracting to do with my hands.

"What do you think of the script?" I asked her. She just shrugged. "It is what it is."

This was not the reaction I'd been hoping for. "It's pretty good though, don't you think? I mean, you don't usually find such high-quality scripts in our line of work."

"I didn't read it," she admitted. "I never do. They're all the same."

"I really think you should," I said, growing more insistent. "This one is different. The characters are complex and three dimensional, the plot has so many layers ..."

She smirked at me. "You're kidding, right?"

I pushed my copy of the script across the table. She took it and began to read. She couldn't have finished more than half a page before she crinkled her nose in protest.

"Aw hell, I told him I wasn't doing anal."

I was about to tell her that she was missing the point of that particular scene, but before I could open my mouth, Brandon wandered over and pushed his way into our booth. He was wearing only a towel, and his chest was still wet from a post-sex shower.

"Well looky here," he said. "The lion and the sheep have become friends. Will wonders never cease?"

"What are you talking about?" Ginger asked. "I owe you a check," he said to me, and pulled out a checkbook from God knows where. "Who should I make it out to?"

Brandon and Ginger looked at me, both waiting for me to say a different name. I could feel my tongue getting dry, and I swallowed hard. Brandon wasn't just aware of the tension, he seemed to be enjoying it.

"Have you two formally met?" he said finally.

"Ginger, this is Eric, one of our writers."

She recoiled in disgust. "A writer?" Her face developed a defiant hardness, and her eyes seemed to be burning through me. "Excuse me," she said curtly, and picked up her plate, retreating towards her friends at the other end of the room.

Brandon watched her go, then turned back to me. "Don't worry about her, sport. She's been in a bitchy mood all morning."

With that unpleasantness out of the way, Brandon returned to his checkbook. "Seriously, I want to pay you," he said. "You got a pen on you?" I nodded, relieved that he didn't have a pen stashed somewhere in that towel.

When he handed me the check, it was a thrilling sensation. All this time, I hadn't really believed that I would actually be compensated. It was too easy, there had to be a catch. But there I was, holding legal proof that I had contributed some valuable service.

"Are you going to stick around and watch some more?" Brandon said, returning his checkbook to parts unknown. "We're shooting the prison scene next."

This remark gave me pause. "What prison scene?" I asked.

"Oh, it's going to be hot," he went on. "Two girls and a guy. You haven't lived till you've seen Ginger in a skimpy prison guard outfit."

"I don't mean to meddle, but I don't think there's a prison scene in my script."

"No, there's not. But we already built the set and it'd be a shame to waste it."

"How are you going to make that work? I mean, it's completely out of context with the rest of the story."

"You think? I hadn't noticed."

"I'm sure you're a fine director, but --"

"Just wait till you see the set," he insisted. "It looks totally real. It's got bars on the windows and everything."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

"I know what you're worried about," he said, furrowing his brow. "And I wish I could help you. But we're on a tight budget here, and I can't tear down a perfectly good prison set just because there doesn't happen to be a prison in the movie."

I could see his point, but the protective writer in me couldn't allow this to happen without trying to salvage what remained of my creative dignity.

"If you want," I said, "I could do a quick rewrite so that the scene makes more sense."

Brandon laughed, slapping the table to emphasize his enjoyment. "That is funny," he said. "You see, that's why you're a great writer."

"I'm serious."

"And so am I. Finish your lunch and then come join us downstairs. You won't be disappointed." He slid out of the booth, but I didn't move. I just clutched my check, staring down at a script that was beginning to look more irrelevant to this process with each passing second.

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