Mr. Goreman wants to make you into a star

"I'll be straight with you," Mr. Goreman says, "you're the prettiest gal I've laid eyes on in 30 years, and talented in ways I really appreciate it. You're the sort of girl who I think really has potential."

You set your piled clothes on the bed and turn to the kindly old man. He gives you a sheepish grin.

"My son gave me a video camera last Christmas," he takes it out of a drawer and shows you a very nice video camera. "I figured out how to use it shooting pictures of the birds, but I think there's something much better we could do with it. You see, with viagra and-"

"You want to fuck me and film it," you say.

"Ah, yes, to start," he says, "there's a whole market of horny seniors out there. We can get rich. I know plenty of actors who would volunteer to help. Maybe even some of the nurses.

"Everyone will recognize me," you object.

Mr. Goreman shrugs, "It's possible someone might, but just put on some makeup, get you a big blond wig, and we'll give you a stage name. How about Jayne Mansfield?"

"Who is that?" you wonder.

"She was before your time. You're like a young Jayne Mansfield." He runs his hand from your shoulder, down over the side of your big breast, over your hip and to your thigh. "We can do fantasy scenes for the old folks and put them on the video discs. What do you say? Want to get into business with me?"

He sticks his hand out to shake, fingers pointed at your bare breasts.