The Hinky Bearskin Rug by Jennifer Stevenson

Well,” Onika leaned forward, “the real
difference between porn and erotica is, porn pays ten times better.”
    Jewel thought.
“Because more men than women buy porn?”
    “Nope.”
    “Because men
have more money?”
    “Nope. It’s
because for a long time nobody figured out that women have more money, and they will buy porn — if it isn’t tacky and mechanical. Those were your words, weren’t
they?”
    “I’m not
trying to insult—” Jewel began.
    “Go home and
watch it. We’re making erotic film for women. It’s respectful, it’s enjoyable,
it’s made with the kind of sex women like. Not the calisthenics you saw
downstairs.”
    Jewel felt a
smile coming on. “Sex women like?”
    The twinkle
was back in Onika’s eye. She said, “Men like quantity. Women like quality. Men
like it fast and talk-free. Women like it slow, with lots of foreplay and
conversation. Men like to break the rules. Women do, too, but they also like to
break down a man’s emotional resistance.” She blew smoke. “Some of ’em. I’ve
heard tell there are some girls so modern, they like sex any old way.”
    Jewel’s pulse
sounded in her ears. “I get you.”
    “I’m not
asking you for any favors. I just want you to look at what we’re doing and
decide for yourself if it deserves a chance. You saw what we do downstairs. Now
let’s go upstairs.”

Chapter Eleven

    On the fifth
floor, they went into a room full of sound mixing consoles—“Sound is almost the
most expensive part, which is why the sound for a lot of porn sucks”—with a
long, low window looking out and down onto a scene of intimacy.
    Down there,
inside a circle of artificial light, was a fake living room in a fake ski
lodge. A fake fireplace flickered. Squat oil lamps sat on old-timey tables
around a big white fake bearskin rug—“I have a thing for bears”—and on the rug
lay a fully-clothed couple in ski duds, including boots and snowsuits.
    They were
kissing very slowly, touching faces, looking into one another’s eyes.
    Jewel frowned.
She felt like she’d walked into a spy-hole on somebody’s private bedroom.
    “I wrote the
first couple scripts, but my contract gal wrote the rest. She’s good. She has
to live with ’em, so it’s only fair.”
    Jewel watched
the man slowly unzip the side of the woman’s snowsuit to reveal perfect skin,
tawny in the fake firelight, all the way down to her ankle. He looked in her
eyes the whole time. The woman said something, and Jewel realized she could
hear her murmuring coming from a speaker in the ceiling of the sound booth. She
took the man’s hands in hers and pressed them against her cheeks. He smiled, shaking
his head, and drew her face very slowly to his for a kiss.
    “That’s
freaky,” Jewel said.
    “Beeecause?”
Clay said.
    “It must take
forever to get down to business.” That wasn’t why it felt freaky, but she
couldn’t think straight.
    “That’s what
makes it good,” Onika whispered. “Going slow.”
    That’s what’s making me antsy as hell, Jewel thought. She’d been horny all
through this visit, but in a casual, volleyball-on-the-beach kind of way. Now
she squirmed.
    Onika went over to the man at the sound console and whispered
to him.
    “You should not be here,” Randy murmured in Jewel’s ear.
    She turned on
him. “What is your problem?”
    “You are
vulnerable to certain kinds of magical influence,” he whispered. “In one summer
alone, you have met with a genie and a magical beauty machine — and with me.”
    “So what’s the
friggin’ magic here? It’s just sex. Not even sex sex. For pete’s sake, look at them, they’re touching each
other’s hands now.”
    “I don’t know
where the magic is. I feel it. There is something hinky in this building,”
Randy said, lifting his head and letting his eyes roam over the ceiling. He
looked at her. “I feel your state.”
    She set her
teeth. What state? she would have
said, but she knew. Randy was attuned to her level