Working Hard For the Money
By Leslie McCormick
A female bodybuilder struggles to support herself




Part One


	My husband Bill and I divorced after three and half years of marriage.  We 
probably should have called it quits after the first two years, but I was 
unwilling to admit I'd made a mistake, and kept postponing the inevitable.  I 
naively thought that our differences were temporary ones, and not the result of 
something fundamentally wrong with our relationship.  
	Our parting was caused by a number of things, but the primary reason was 
my past.  I came from a dysfunctional family.  My parents died in a car accident 
when I was young, and my sister and I were sent to live with my father's 
brother, and his young wife.  Being introduced into their house revealed and 
widened the emotional fissure between my aunt and uncle.  He was a hard-drinking 
Irishman, more interested in alcohol than in anything else in life.  She was a 
shy, Catholic girl who'd been raised by a stern, demanding father.  Neither of 
them were emotional extroverts, and the end result of keeping their feelings 
bottled up was to create a wall between them.
	My sister, Mary Ellen, was a wild, rebellious girl with a perverse streak 
that she made no effort to suppress.  Through a bizarre set of circumstances, 
she came to be the dominant personality in the household, and it not only ended 
my aunt and uncle's marriage, but it changed and warped my aunt and me.  I 
endured it for as long as it took me to earn enough money to escape, and then I 
left home, leaving, I thought, the memories and heartache far behind.  But it 
wasn't that easy.
	Being deprived of love and affection affects one in a way that isn't 
immediately noticeable.  You walk around normally, and you think you're handling 
the world satisfactorily, but deep inside you, there's always a dull ache, and a 
river of underlying rage and shame.  It colors your perception of the world, and 
it colors the perception you have of yourself.  It's not a conscious thing, but 
it permeates your thoughts, feelings and attitudes.
	I was sexually promiscuous.  There's no way to sugarcoat that bald and 
unadulterated fact.  I slept with any man who showed the slightest interest in 
me.  I was so starved for affection that it didn't matter whether the men 
subsequently treated me with disdain.  Their wanting to sleep with me was 
approbation enough, and in the first two years after I left home, I went through 
a series of sexual encounters that I blush to think about today.
	I met Bill through a mutual friend, and we hit it off almost immediately.  
We had instant chemistry, and that blinded us to each other's faults.  In 
hindsight, I can say that we weren't so much in love with each as we were in 
lust.  We couldn't keep our hands off each other, and in that first euphoric 
three month period when we were dating, it was idyllic.  We married in a private 
ceremony, and got an apartment in Cambridge.
	Like most new wives, I was uncertain of myself.  I wanted so badly to 
please Bill, and catered to his every need.  Even though I worked full-time, I 
shouldered the responsibility of cleaning the house, doing the laundry, and 
buying groceries.  Bill handled all of the money, even what I earned.  He 
claimed it was the man's prerogative, and though that bothered me, I acquiesced 
in the spirit of maintaining the household peace.
	I thought Bill loved me, and so I confided in him.  I told him about my 
past, keeping nothing back.  At first, he was supportive and encouraging, but 
that attitude soon gave way to rage and jealousy.  Bill was raised to be a good, 
God-fearing Christian, and he had a strong sense of morality that was ultimately 
offended by the things I'd done.  He struggled to come to terms with it, but he 
had neither the generosity of heart, nor the strength of character to realize I 
was now a different person.
	It might have been okay if he hadn't met Mary McCrossan.  Mary was the 
sister of a man I'd dated for about six months.  Tom McCrossan was outwardly 
normal in every way, but that was a cover for a depraved and soulless nature.  
He drank, and took drugs, and had no moral character whatsoever, so it was 
natural that I would fall for him.  He recognized the sense of worthlessness I 
carried around with me like a piece of luggage, and honed in on it.  Within days 
of our meeting, I was living in his apartment, and jumping to his every command.
It was a perverse, obscene relationship, made worse by the fact that his sister, 
Mary, was an observer of my degradation.  With the help of some friends, I 
managed to extricate myself from the relationship.  I thought was free, only to 
be surprised by Mary's re-entry into my life.
	She showed up at my first bodybuilding competition, and struck up a 
conversation with Bill.  I'd changed dramatically since I'd last seen her, but 
she remembered me, of course.  For reasons I never discovered, she developed a 
relationship with Bill, and filled his head with tales, true and otherwise, of 
my six-month relationship with her brother.  That was the beginning of the end 
for us.  Bill's mind was already poisoned against me.  Mary's sordid retelling 
of my and Tom's sexual adventures was the proverbial straw that broke the 
camel's back.  Almost overnight, Bill went from tolerant forbearance to 
contemptuous disdain.
	After Bill and I divorced, I found myself with no assets, and virtually no 
money.  I'd given up full-time work to devote myself to my bodybuilding career.  
As a personal trainer and part-time coach, he earned all the money.  At that 
point in our relationship, I was totally dependent upon him for income.  As a 
single woman on my own, I was faced with the prospects of supporting myself once 
again.
	I was reluctant to give up my bodybuilding career.  I was winning 
contests, and gaining a reputation.  The purses I was winning were paltry, 
barely large enough to cover my expenses, much less allow me the opportunity of 
putting a few dollars aside in the event of a rainy day.  Besides, I couldn't 
count on winning every contest I entered.  The competitors I was going up 
against were progressing as rapidly, if not more so, than I was.  Lately, even 
being the odds-on favorite was no help when it came time for the judging.
	Over the years, I'd developed a close relationship with Diana Bostwick, 
another woman bodybuilder.  She lived in Connecticut, but made frequent trips to 
Boston as part of her part-time sales job.  Whenever she visited, we'd get 
together for dinner or a movie, or just to chat.  I liked Diana a lot.  She was 
genuine, and didn't play head games, like so many other women did.
	She came to visit me the week after my divorce was final.  I was living in 
a two-bedroom apartment in the South End of Boston, a rent-free sublet that was 
the gift of a man who wanted to sleep with me.  I'd been holding him off, but I 
didn't know how much longer I could continue to do that.  He was in Cancun for 
three weeks, so I knew I had at least that much time to come up with something 
for myself.  But I was nervous and apprehensive.  If something didn't pop for 
me, I'd have almost no choice but to give in to his demand for sex.
	Diana treated me to dinner at Hammersley's Bistro, a high-class 
establishment that featured novelle cuisine at expensive prices.  We had a table 
near the rear, away from the main dining area.  Diana ordered a bottle of wine, 
and listened while I told her my troubles.
	"Sounds like you're pretty desperate," she said, when I'd finished.
	I nodded agreement.  She stared steadily at me, as though gauging me.  
Diana's eyes are the color of spit, and having those pale orbs stare at me was 
slightly disconcerting.
	"What?" I asked.
	"I have an idea," she said, "but I don't know whether you're up for it."
	"A job?  What is it?"
	Diana had her briefcase with her.  She rummaged inside, and produced a 
flyer printed on high-quality glossy paper.  She handed it across to me.  It was 
a advertisement for a company that was looking for female bodybuilders.  The 
text was rather vague as to what was required, but it mentioned short hours and 
high pay.
	"What's this?"
	"They do videos and pictures," Diana explained.  "Body worship, fantasy 
and competitive wrestling."
	I'd heard of firms like that, of course.  Not a day went by when I wasn't 
approached in one way or another by someone looking to exploit me.  I'd turned 
down all the offers, though, because they had a reputation of sleaziness that 
couldn't be ignored.  I said as much to Diana, but she shook her head.
	"This company's different," she said.  "They'll shoot straight with you."
	"How do you know?"
	"Because I do work for them."
	"You?"  I was stunned.
	"Don't look so surprised.  You really didn't think that my sales job was 
supporting me, did you?  I get a lousy three percent on what I sell."
	"But you have a husband.  Doesn't he mind?"
	"He doesn't know," Diana said.  "And I'm not about to tell him."  She 
leaned across the table, and lowered her voice.  "It's a way of making money.  
So what if I have to endure a strange guy's hands touching me?  It doesn't 
change who I am."
	I was silent.  Who was I to pass judgement on her?  In my past, I'd done 
things that would probably repulse Diana if she knew of them.  Diana reached and 
placed her hand atop mine.
	"I could get you an interview.  The money's very good."
	"I don't know," I said.  "Let me think about it."
	It didn't take me long to decide.  By the time dessert and coffee came, 
I'd made up my mind.
	"Set it up for me," I told Diana.  "It can't hurt to check it out."
	She flashed me a brilliant smile.  "You won't regret it," she assured me.

	The company was located in a converted warehouse in Winthrop.  I was 
scheduled to meet with Daniel Pfizer, the owner.  He was a big, balding man with 
an enormous gut that hung over his belt.  He seemed affable enough though.  He 
greeted me effusively, and steered me into a well-appointed office dominated by 
a huge desk.
	"Diana told me all about you," he said, after fetching me a cup of coffee.  
"She said you were one of the best."
	"I wouldn't go that far."
	"I would.  Believe me, I've seen a lot of women in this line of work, and 
you're built like a brick shithouse.  The guys'll love you."
	"Do you really think so?"
	"Think so?  I know so.  Hey, it's my business.  Let's get you set up.  Did 
you bring your stuff with you?"
	"My stuff?"
	"Yeah.  Didn't Diana tell you to bring your posing suit with you?  No?  No 
matter.  I got plenty of extras in the back."
	"Wait a minute," I said.  "Not so fast.  Can we talk about the money 
first?"
	"Oh, Christ, yes.  Forgive me.  I assumed you knew the score."  Pfizer 
settled back in his leather chair.  "I pay you a small salary, say ten grand a 
year.  That's base.  You earn ten percent on all videos you sell.  You keep 
sixty percent on all you make from wrestling."
	"Wrestling?"
	"Yeah.  Some guys want to wrestle you women.  I charge them a hundred and 
a quarter an hour.  That's seventy-five to you.  I take care of all promotion 
and advertising."
	"Wrestling?"
	"And body worship.  That's higher.  That usually goes for two, two and a 
quarter, depending on the woman's popularity.  So, what do you say?  That suit 
you?"
	“What’s body worship?”
	“You know.  You and guy alone in a room, and he runs his hands all over 
you.  Whether you get nude is up to you.  It’s not part of the standard price, 
but if you negotiate something extra for yourself, that’s pure gravy for you.  I 
don’t take any of that as my cut.  That okay with you?” 
	"Yes," I answered numbly.  "That suits me just fine."
	"Good," Pfizer said.  "Let me give you the tour, and get you started."
	It was a bigger operation than I'd suspected.  The warehouse was large 
enough to accommodate three studios, and three wrestling rings.  There were also 
two private rooms in the back where the body worship sessions took place.  
Pfizer had spared no expense in outfitting the place with all the necessary 
equipment.  The studio where they taped the videos was as well-equipped as any 
Hollywood studio.  The area devoted to still photographs was equipped with 
lights and high-quality cameras.
	The dressing rooms were large and comfortable.  Each woman had her own 
locker.  Pfizer showed me the one he'd reserved for me.  It was big enough to 
hold at least two street outfits in addition to my posing suits and gym 
equipment.  I was impressed by the setup and said as much.
	"I'm glad you like it," Pfizer said.  "I put a lot of money into this 
place.  I maintain a high-quality outfit.  Oh, and there's something else I 
forgot to tell you.  No fraternizing with the customers on the outside.  That’s 
where I draw the line.  I don't care how much extra they offer you.  I catch you 
doing that, you're out on your ass. No ifs, ands, or buts."
	"I wouldn't do that," I said.  "I only want to make some money."
	"Don't worry about that," Pfizer said.  "The way you look, you'll be 
rolling in the dough in no time.  Here, try one of these suits, and let's take 
some test shots of you."
	I hadn't planned on doing anything more than talking to Pfizer, but he was 
so insistent and enthusiastic, that I found myself going along with him.  
Besides, the thought of earning money for doing nothing more than posing was 
enticing.
	I changed into one of the posing suits Pfizer provided.  By the time I'd 
changed, he'd summoned one of the staff photographers, and had the camera 
equipment ready to go.  We worked for about two hours, taking shots of me for 
every angle.  It was easy work.  All I had to do was pose as though I were in 
competition.  The photographer did the rest.  He kept his instructions to a 
minimum, and when he called a halt to the proceedings, I was mildly 
disappointed.  I felt I could have gone for another hour or two.  Pfizer, who'd 
been watching the whole time, told me to meet him in his office when I'd changed 
back into my street clothing.
	"You did good," Pfizer said when I joined him.  He took a contract from 
his desk, and put it on the desk between us.  "Here.  Take this with you.  You 
can have your attorney review it, make sure it's kosher.  Then you sign it, 
bring it back, I sign it, and we're in business together."
	I picked up the contract, and put it in my purse.  I started to rise, but 
Pfizer waved me back into my chair.  "What's your rush?  You don't want your 
money?"
	He took a checkbook from his desk, and wrote out a check with a flourish.  
I could tell doing this pleased him.  He liked giving the appearance of being 
magnanimous.  I took the proffered check and glanced at it.
	"Five hundred dollars."
	Pfizer waved it off.  "That’s to pay you for your time today.  It’s more 
than you’d make normally, but you can consider the rest a gift.  I got the 
feeling we’ll do well together.”
	There was nothing more to say.  I put the check in my purse alongside the 
contract, rose, and shook hands with Pfizer.  Ten minutes later, I was in my 
car, heading home.  I was both apprehensive and excited.  If the contract wasn’t 
onerous, I had a potential new career; one that’d support me comfortably while I 
continued my bodybuilding career.  The future looked bright.  The only unknown 
was how the job would turn out.  But that question would be answered soon 
enough.

End of Part One