I got to the gas station where Bob worked as a mechanic close to five o'clock. He was standing by the Dumpster out back. He hadn't seen me yet, so I just stood there for a minute thinking things over. Was I sure about this? If I had a type, Bob was most certainly not it. He was about five foot four and two hundred and sixty pounds. Pudgy, to say the least. Even in his mechanic's coveralls, he looked like a fat, messy little kid. To call him ugly would be too kind. Weird was a better way of describing him. His curly black hair was always covered in dandruff, his skin was always greasy, and his breath always stank. He had those athletic tube socks with red and blue stripes that only dorks and small kids wore. I knew this because his coveralls were always about six inches too short. I would have felt sorry for him if I didn't know he was a great big fat old pervert.

I just stood there watching him for a couple minutes, wondering if this was a mistake. Then Bob flicked his cigarette into the wind, which flicked it right back at him. He freaked out and started patting his chest like a baboon to put out the smoldering ashes. I started to laugh. Why the fuck not, I thought. At least he's entertaining.

"Hey, Bob. Don't get too close to the pumps while you're burning like that!" I joked.

When Bob saw me his face turned redder than usual. "Goddamn cheap cigarettes," he said. "What are you up to, kiddo?"

"Nothing, man," I said. "When are you getting off work?"

"Oh, I can get outta here in about twenty minutes, why you asking?"

"I need a place to stay, Bob."

That was one of the most painful things I had ever said, but I tried to look enthusiastic. Bob didn't need to try. He looked like he just remembered it was his birthday and he was hungry for some cake.

I waited around the station for twenty minutes smoking and trying not to think of what was coming.

"You want an ice-cold soda, champ?"

I hated when Bob would call me names like that. Impersonal names, designed to alienate you. Those were the same names my stepfather used to call me. "Sport," "Champ," "Kiddo." My real father, even when he was drunk, never called me names like that. He called me "Matty" or "Harvey Wallbanger," and that was it. (Harvey Wallbanger was his drink, by the way. Vodka, orange juice, and a splash of Galliano. Twenty years of drinking those nasty motherfuckers would kill you, too.)

"Sure, Bob."

"Well, what flavor do you want, kiddo?"

"Sprite, I guess."

"All out of Sprite, champ. Alls we got left is Coke. That okay?"

"Sure." Then, under my breath: "Then why the fuck did you even ask me?"

It was only about forty minutes from Miami Beach to Fort Lauderdale, but with Bob it seemed like hours. He told me all about his "connections." He knew Mick Jagger, Ron Wood, Rod Stewart, all the great rock stars. And if things worked out well for "us," I might get to be a stagehand for the Stones. How lovely for me: I mean, I knew he was full of shit, but something in me wanted to believe him anyway. It was strange how much I wanted to believe back then. So I found myself daydreaming about being a roadie for the Stones, until I would sort of return to reality and find myself riding in fat Bob's filthy fucking car. It's no wonder I daydreamed so much.

In most of my daydreams back then I was living with a beautiful librarian. I was always taking out the trash or fixing the leak under the kitchen sink. We would lie in bed reading every night and then discuss the books in the dark. Somehow we always ended up making passionate love. In my dreams. In reality, I had fat Bob and his bad breath and dandruff. He went on talking about his famous friends for the entire ride. You know, a guy could really go far hanging out with Bob. Like right to bed!

When we got to the house Bob played it cool for a couple of hours, then out came the pornos. Straight ones right off the bat. "Okay," I'm thinking, "this could work out after all. I just need to get him to brush his teeth." But there was something strange about Bob's attitude towards the pornos. It was like he had a purely scientific interest. He was studying them very closely. Then he got a pad and a pencil out and started taking notes.

"Damn!" Bob yelled. "That's not the position I designed. This director is always screwing up my moves!"

He knew he had gotten my attention. "Oh, sorry, kiddo," he said. "I have to get some work done. This is my second job. The one that makes me rich." He didn't look rich to me. "Yeah," he said, "I invent new positions for adult movies."

All I could say was, "What?"

"Oh yeah, they run out of new positions to do it in, so that's where I come in. I design new ones."

Did he think I was buying this shit? "I bet that pays well," I said.

"Oh, sure," he said, "they pay me ten dollars a position and I can do twenty positions in a night. The only problem is I need a helper." So here it came: "Do you know anyone who wants to make some fast money?"

"I don't know. What do you have to do?"

"Just help me invent new positions for the movies. It's easy. You just have to pose in these new positions while I create a template." So Bob was an artist.

"Okay," I said, trying not to laugh. "How much will I get?"

"I'll split it with you, kiddo, and that's a good deal, too. After all, it's me who's coming up with all the ideas. You just have to lay there."

"Okay" was all I could say. I mean I had come this far already.

So he turned off the movie and took all the dirty clothes and damp towels off his bed and told me to take off all my clothes but my underwear. This was for realism, he explained. Then the freak show began. It was fucking hard to believe how seriously Bob took his act. He got me to pose on all fours, and then on my back with my legs in the air, and then he covered me in these filthy old newspapers from around the room. (I'd been wondering what all the newspapers were about. His apartment looked like someone was doing a paper drive or something.) And all the time he was wearing these ugly bifocals with a black Magic Marker stuck behind his ear. To make matters worse, he undressed, too.

So picture this, if you can. A five-foot-four, fat, naked, and extremely hairy guy with bad breath and dandruff, wearing only bifocals and dirty Fruit of the Loom underwear, running around the bed making marks on newspapers that are covering my naked body. Bob was fucking frantic. He kept yelling stuff like, "Perfecto!" and "Bravissimo!" or, "Hold that one, don't move a hair!" The only reason I could keep a straight face was that he was a little scary. Then he got a little, pathetic boner. I was terrified that I might start laughing. I mean, this was fucking ludicrous.

But I didn't laugh. It wasn't really all that funny, this position I was in. Not literally, just the fact that I was now stuck up in Fort Lauderdale with Bob the freak.

"Okay," he said, "that's enough of the solo poses. Time to do the action couple shots!"

"Wait a minute," I asked. "How many was that?"

Bob said, "Ten."

"It felt more like thirty."

"Well, it wasn't," he said. "We only did ten usable new positions. Now you're distracting me. Do you want to make more money or what?"

"Okay."

Then Bob climbed into the bed with me and started arranging us into all kinds of positions. Once we were in a suitable "new" position, he dragged the newspapers on top of us. Then he made little tears in the paper where our bodies were touching.

"These are the templates," he explained.

"Whatever," I said. This went on for about a half an hour. Bob would exclaim, "I've got it!" and we would move on to another so-called "new" position.

Bob achieved bliss in about the one hundredth new position. He never took his underwear off. I guess he was thinking that if we didn't come, then what we did was legit. So he shot his load into his shorts and I was not supposed to notice. The filthy creep never even changed his fucking underwear. He just stood up and announced, "That's a wrap!" then started getting dressed. So I didn't even get to come. This was absolutely the worst trick I'd ever done.

When I finished taking a shower to get the smell of Bob off me, not to mention all the black newspaper ink, Bob said he wanted to go eat at Morrison's Cafeteria. Where else would a guy like Bob eat? Later, when we'd finished our "home-cooked" meal, I asked him for the cash and he said he couldn't pay me until he got paid, which was thirty days after he submitted his work.

"But the royalties," he explained, "the royalties are where we make all the money!"

Now I was fucking pissed. "What the fuck, Bob, you owe me one hundred bucks!"

"Sorry, champ, can't help you out until I get paid. We're both in the same boat."

"Like hell we are, Bob! I'm not even in the same fucking ocean with you!"

Bob handled my outburst like a patient father. "Take it easy, kiddo. We'll get paid soon enough. I'll cover your expenses until then and you can pay me back. Besides, I haven't even told you about the best part yet!"

"Oh, I'm fucking quivering with anticipation, Bob."

"Okay," he said, "joke all you want. But you don't wanna miss out on this opportunity."

I fell for the bait. "What opportunity?"

"Well, you're great at modeling the new positions, but I think I need someone smaller than me to work with you. Besides, I can't work and pose at the same time anymore."

"So what are you saying?" I asked.

"We need someone closer to your size that you can pose with. Don't worry, champ, I've already got a few girls in mind."

I'll never forgive myself for falling for that one. I mean, I knew he was lying, but I wanted to believe him so badly that I just shut off my ability to reason for a little while. I suspended my disbelief. I couldn't hear Bob anymore. I was gone, starring in my very own child porn film.

After Morrison's, Bob told me to walk around the mall while he took care of some errands. Later, when we got home, he went into his bedroom for a couple of hours while I watched TV. When he reappeared he was carrying a large manila folder. He walked over to where I was sitting on the couch and dropped the folder down next to me.

"There you go, champ, all the girls left in this folder are available for work next weekend. Take your pick."

I opened the folder and found a neat stack of photos cut right out of magazines. They were all of young girls from about twelve to sixteen. He must have cut them out of Seventeen or Young Miss, but I looked them over anyway. I spent hours trying to decide who I wanted to work with. When I finally made up my mind I handed a picture to Bob and said, "I like her." It was a full-length shot of a young girl sitting at a small wooden school desk, chewing on a pencil and trying to look perplexed. She had big, dark eyes and wore black plastic eyeglasses like Elvis Costello. She had medium-length chestnut brown hair and a fair complexion, and her breasts were underdeveloped beneath her white schoolgirl's blouse. Don't get me wrong. I'm not into schoolgirls with plaid skirts and all, but she looked so damn smart. I was in love.

"Oh, nice choice," said Bob. "That's Dianne. Let me give her agent a call."

And off he went into the bedroom. I could hear him making his fake call in a voice way too loud for the phone, and couldn't help but chuckle. Bob was definitely a freak. When he came back to the living room he said, "Okay, champ. She's available for next weekend on Saturday. It's all set up." He took back the folder, but I kept the picture of Dianne. Well, what else was I going call her?

I knew Bob was full of shit, but I couldn't help dreaming about Dianne every second for the next week. Every day, Bob got home at seven or so and I met him at the door. Of course he didn't let me stay in his house alone during the day. I just wandered around Fort Lauderdale daydreaming and smoking. At night we did the usual routine and soon Bob was into me for like fifteen hundred bucks, minus the five he gave me every day for food and cigarettes.

On the following Saturday, I was all nerves. I was frantic all day long. I was at Bob's door at five pacing up and down the corridor. Of course, Bob showed up at seven with the bad news. Dianne's agent had called him at work and they had to reschedule for next weekend. But, hey, the Stones were on tour and Bob had made a call to his buddy, Turtle, who guaranteed him that there was a job for me starting next Sunday and paying two hundred bucks a day! On tour with the Stones! Wow, maybe I could even bring Dianne.

Like I said, Bob gave me five bucks a day for food and cigarettes. So, I didn't eat. I was squirreling away some cash for a rainy day. I would steal food while Bob took his morning shower and then eat like a pig at night when he got home. I stayed at Bob's for over two months, every night another story, and every night the same "position game." After about ten more stories and the subsequent letdowns, I had about a hundred bucks saved up.

One day I woke up and split. I didn't think about it or plan it, I just got on the bus headed to Miami.

I never saw Bob again, but that happens a lot in my line of work.

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