- The Office of Sol Goldblum

Sol Goldblum swivels in his Arne Jacobson egg-chair with its expensive teal-blue wool fabric. In his hands is a gilt-edged invitation to a soiree next Saturday week - from none other than Damien Sinclair. Goldblum wonders why he's been summoned to the inner sanctum. Although both men were in the film business, they didn't exactly move in the same circles. Sinclair was like a major league player in Hollywood, and well, Sol was still a rookie.

The porn industry was just fledgling, coming out of the shadows and into the mainstream. Sol considered himself a pioneer. Unlike his predecessors, his studio produced films with an actual script and plotline. His employees had to be able to act as well as screw. Along with a few of his contemporaries like Al Goldstein and Larry Flynt, he fought to bring pornography out from under the counter and at the front of the shelves where it rightfully belonged - accessible to all. Sol always knew that risking greater distribution and fighting censorship would prove to be extremely lucrative in the long run. 

He read the invitation once more. It was a costume party, the theme was "Before Christ". He chuckles to himself, that shouldn't be too hard for a Jew. Oh, he had heard about these parties. You either had to be extraordinarily rich, famous, or exceptionally beautiful to attend. There were also the rumours of course, about what went on there. Not that it bothered Goldblum, kinks were his bread and butter, he was always eager to find out what people were into just so he could exploit a new niche.

His receptionist pops her head round the door. "You're two o'clock is here Mr Goldblum. I believe she did really well in the screen tests."

"Good, send her in." He slips the invitation in his drawer. A young woman enters, long mousey brown hair, slender and sweet-faced. She takes a chair opposite when Goldblum gestures for her to sit.

"Did you bring a copy of your birth certificate this time?"

"Yes, Mr Goldblum"

"Good, I can't have any girls under 18. No minors, otherwise, I'll have the Feds jumping on my case. I have built an entire industry out of helping guys and girls, just like you, to get a head start in life. You could actually earn yourself a decent nest egg in a few years if you play your cards straight."

"Exactly how much money is that again Mr Goldblum, I'd like to read the contract please." As she reaches over, her hand accidently moves an ornamental paper weight to the side. It is Chinese in origin, an erect penis carved from jade and mounted on an ebony stand. Goldblum frowns and places it back in its original position on the immaculately kept desk.

The girl's eyebrows raise slightly as she reads, the remuneration was much more than her job at the supermarket, but she quickly tries to recover herself and appear business-like.

"Everything in order?"

"Yes, fine. There's just one thing, I don't want to use my real name."

"Honey, I'll give you a tip, in this business nobody uses their real name. So, what's it to be then?"

She taps the pen to her lip and gazes around the room hoping for some inspiration. She looks down in her lap and the keychain clipped on her bag catches her attention, it has a round plastic disc with a sunflower emblem on one side and a peace symbol on the other. She prints the name and signs the contract with a flourish then hands it back to Goldblum.

"Alright, welcome aboard Sunny Gold. Though with that name we should probably change your hair colour."

"I'm not going to dye it!"

"Fine, report to the wardrobe department see if they can fit you with a decent wig or something."

"Thank you, Mr Goldblum. We have a deal." Before he can react, she reaches over and shakes his hand.

He watches her go. God, I hope this one works out. He had a girl recently that had become quite mentally unstable. She had attacked her co-star and bitten his ear off. He kept the film of course, waste not want not, but she had to be let go. His actors were an investment, and he couldn't afford to let things like that happen too often. The thought suddenly unnerves him, and he races to the ensuite bathroom in his office, rolling up his shirt sleeves and lathering both hands. He washes up to the elbows as if he were about to perform surgery, then rinses clean, drying his hands on a fresh white towel. This ritual, sometimes performed up to seven times a day, is what manages his anxiety.

He gazes in the mirror and recites from Leviticus in Hebrew "When the zav is cleansed of his issue, then he shall number to himself seven days for his cleansing and wash his clothes; and he shall bathe his flesh in running water and shall be clean."