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It was only 11am when I got kicked loose from jury duty, so as I left the courthouse on McAllister I decided to walk over to Borders to check out the latest literary journals. While I was making my way down Market Street a hand grabbed my ass; fortunately, as I'm from New York, assaults as this to my person do not tend to faze me. I simply wheeled around and came face to face with the boyfriend who dumped me twenty-three years ago.
Now, I like Jack, and don't mind that he's somewhat still in my life. But there seems to be an unspoken implication that somehow all those years ago I started him in his predilection for bondage and discipline. Our relationship was nothing like that. I distinctly remember separating my personal from my professional life back then, and when it came to doing it with boys I liked I preferred it plain and straight. And I really loved Jack for six full weeks when we were both twenty-four. Maybe it's the case that when you've been a porn actress people pin all sorts of sexual modus operandi on you.
Anyway, Jack treated me to a coffee and told me about his new lady who, as it turns out, shares his tastes. This is good to know. Makes me still believe San Francisco's the wild town I moved to in the 70s. Apparently there's a whole BD subculture, complete with rentable dungeons and handcuff parties. I wouldn't care to participate, though. I do have a fantasy life, but it consists of being kidnapped by Alan Rickman.
I explained to Jack what I was doing on 6th and Market, that is, walking down the street, and not on celluloid in some booth at one of the adult bookshops. It was going to be a two-month case, a humdinger of a lawsuit, and I ought to have been the perfect juror: mature, a college graduate, female (always good for sympathy), a homemaker with a grown son, and time on my hands. If I was going to be excused, I expected it to be by the corporation's lawyer, not by the salt-of-the-earth plaintiff's. But there he was, Mr. Clarence Darrow, with his brown suit and his peremptory challenge, wishing me good day.
Free until next year! But as I was sipping coffee and chatting with Jack a silly, vain, but undismissable thought crossed my mind: Could Clarence Darrow have seen one of my films?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Novelist, playwright, former opera student, ex-porn star, Cantara Christopher divides her time between San Francisco and Paris. Her work has appeared off-off Broadway and in The Pacific Coast Journal, Brevity, Comrades, and Doorknobs & BodyPaint. Find her virtually at cantarachristopher.com