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"You bitch."

"Oh, yes. He is big and dark and muscular. A Mexican."


"Or Cuban. He looks like that ballplayer who's always on TV."

Watching Annie's bony chest flush that way -- crimson stripe down the middle, blotches like finger marks on her breasts, like a lover's been and gone -- it reminds me of a tennis court, and of my little sister. I've no idea why.

"Maybe he is the ballplayer."

"No. He's a fruit-seller. That's why we were late today, actually. Annie was flirting. The panties, too?"

"Yes. She get anywhere?"

"Oh, I think so. But he was shy. A big, hunky shy guy. I don't understand it."

"Men are funny that way."

And sad too, those fellas who can't get the mouth up to speed, mumbly fumbly, you want to say it for them.

"Now you, Dawn."

"Can I -- ?"

"No, Annie. Um ... you get on the floor. On your back. Arms at your sides. Watch Dawn undress. Dawn, you straddle her. Like she's Killer. Good."

Not like her sister, not beautiful maybe, I don't hyperventilate but she's what sells the pictures. Sober lines, straight hair, too-large teeth, a body less doll-like to assure us of the reality of the other. The chance of this happening. I'm not, after all, shooting porn. Two Annies would bore me and bore my audience.

"Annie -- throw all that gorgeous hair of yours to one side."

"Like this?"

"That's it, sweetheart. How does your sister look from down there?"


Love these girls. They'll do anything, and everything my American girls refuse to do. Must come from that servile tradition in Asia, the bound feet, the geishas. Nothing like that in the bedroom, I imagine, but they obey me just fine. What are their names again? Phoung Anh, that's Annie's real name. Dawn is Dang something. Funny, I don't know shit about the Orient, except that about half the girls in Thailand and Vietnam and those places gotta sell themselves to get by, or else their parents sell them, somebody sells them. I think east I think mercantile. Maybe that's where it comes from. Anyway, this is America, and this is crazed-out wonderful. This is millennium-era immigration, all of us getting rich. Like B.B. King and Doris Day. Dig it.

"Meow, miaou, miaow. Prrrrrrrrrr..."

Felix, my wonnerful, wonnerful cat!

"Trash, your kitty is in the shot."

"Leave him."

He's going to be right up on Annie doing push-ups on her tits, I know my dear little white-gloved pussy. It's like cats simply don't care what's going on in the human world, we exist to feed them and to be rubbed up against.

"Oh, man. Get this animal some Scope!"

"Leave him, Annie."

"He smells like he just threw up Charlie Tuna."

"It's liver and cheese and I want him in the shot, thank you. You girls are not concentrating."

Silence. Slow it down. Felix, my darling -- paw on quietly, please.

"What do you want, Trash?"

I want what we had before. That stuff about the Mexican. The claws out, the hissing. I want my pictures to hiss like cats in rain. Steel, ice, fur, and a nice bulge somewhere. I want sex (smart sex!) which knows enough to acknowledge violence and I want you, sisters, to hate. Show me how two sisters can hate.

"It's your turn, Annie. Tell me what's going through Dawnie's mind right now."


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