Carl Conley - Ranch Roundup Family Style

Jerri Phillips stood on the corner of Fifth and Lexington in New York City, beneath her umbrella, waiting for the traffic light to change. She glanced to the newsstand just feet away. Staring up at her from the cover of Feminine Image was Jerri Phillips, recently declared" most sensational new model" by Women's Wear Daily.

The light turned green, but Jerri stood there, in the drizzling rain, looking at her picture on the magazine cover. It's not worth it; she thought to herself, it's just not worth it. She stepped off the curb and continued on down the puddle-laden street.

The door to the apartment slammed.

"Jerri, is that you?" a voice from the kitchen called.

"It's me," Jerri called, heading toward the kitchen.

Carol, her roommate, was making dinner. Jerri walked to the counter and took a piece of lettuce from the salad Carol was tossing.

"Hey, no snitching. We'll eat in about ten minutes," Carol said pleasantly.

"Okay," Jerry said, walking back into the living room. Carol thought it odd that Jerri didn't sit in the kitchen to talk to her. She figured Jerri had had a bad day.

Jerri sat on the couch and lit a cigarette. She stared at the ceiling for a moment, trying to relax, but she couldn't. She kicked off her shoes and lifted her feet to the couch, then smoothed out her fashionable midi skirt.

"I've had it!" she called to the kitchen.

There was no reply. Carol had heard it all before. Jerri had been threatening to quit the modeling business for months now, but it had never gone beyond that. Carol figured she would continue to threaten, but never do anything about it.

Jerri began to relax. She crossed her arms over her shapely breasts, winch were dearly visible through the tight, form-fitting sweater she was wearing. She closed her eyes and dozed off as Carol set the table for dinner.

Jerri Phillips was one of those lucky ones the modeling business" finds" every year-the new shape, the new look, the new style-and gives all its attention to. In a matter of months, Jerri had gone from doing fashion shows at Bloomingdales to the cover of every influential women's magazine in the country. She was-she hated the word, but it was the only correct one-a star.

Jerri's new look wasn't new at all It was right for the time, correct for the recent fashion collections. She was tall and slim, with long shaggy chestnut brown hair, deep green eyes and firm young breasts. The days of the Twiggy look had come and gone, and breasts-not large, but well-formed, rounded and firm-were back in style. Jerri never wore a bra, and thus her hard nipples were an asset to her particular look. They were clearly visible under every sweater and blouse she wore. Her shapely legs accented her short mini skirts, and yet when she wore the maxi and midi lengths, she still looked stunning because her legs were so long.

But the modeling business, as Jerri had come to find out for herself, was not all glamour and fun. People were fiercely competitive-there was no such thing as a friend in the business-and jobs were hard to come by. Besides being attractive, Jerri had been forced to submit to the sexual advances of many an editor, designer, or agent who could help her career.

Jerri had always figured she would have to sleep around a bit to get to the top, but she didn't mind that. She liked sex as much as any healthy young girl living in New York, and many of the experiences were pleasurable.

But many of them-and the number seemed to be increasing-were not. She was almost on top now, almost the top model in the country, and still she found herself having to submit to the advances of dirty old men who controlled the business. She was tired of it, and tired of the other unfortunate aspects of the modeling world as well.

Jerri was fed up with the hours, with the phone calls every hour of the day and night, fed up with the appointments and the waiting and the wasted time. She began to hate the photographers who treated her like a commodity, as if they were photographing a basket of fruit. She couldn't find anyone she could trust or talk to. Everyone was in the business for personal gain and they would stop at nothing to get ahead.

"I swear, it's gotta be worse than Hollywood!" Jerri said, sitting at the dinner table with Carol. "Today that freak Jason"

"Who's Jason?" Carol asked, chewing a juicy piece of pork roast.

"Jason, the guy at Photo International, the one with the curly black hair and the big cock," Jerri replied.

"Oh, yeah," Carol said, still eating.

"Well, we were getting ready for a shot and he called me to the dressing room to stick some damn feather in my hair or something, and what does he do but pull his cock out and tell me to suck him off. Right there, between takes, with about twelve guys in the next room waiting for me! I was in full makeup, and he wants me to suck him off!"

"Did you?"

"Sure, what could I do? I no sooner got on my knees and took it in my lips when he came. All down my chin, on my dress! A thousand-dollar original! Cum spots on the bodice! Jesus Christ. He may be a good-looking guy, but I can't take shit like that. "Jerri took a sip of wine.

"Look," Carol said gently," I told you it's your decision. You either stay with it, hang in there, put up with the shit, suck them off when they want and have your name and picture plastered on billboards from here to California. Or you get up and get out. What's more important? Your career or your sanity? I don't think you can have both in this city."

Jerri didn't reply, but she was thinking. Carol was right, but what could she do, pack up and leave? Get up and run? Where would she go? What would her parents say? What would her brother say? What would she do with her life?

The questions stayed in Jerri's mind all evening, and they kept her from falling asleep once she was in bed. She tried to forget about them. She tried masturbation, but she wasn't in the mood. She tried a mild sedative, but that didn't help either. Finally she got up and walked around the apartment.

Carol came out of her bedroom. "Jerri, what's wrong?"

"I can't sleep. I can't decide."

"Decide what?" Carol asked, sitting on the couch.

"Decide what to do with my life! I have a six-thirty call in the morning and here I am, worrying about the stupid business. I'm gonna look GREAT tomorrow!"

"Hey," Carol said, extending her hand," come sit by me. Tell me."

Jerri sat next to her friend. They had been friends for years, ever since they attended the same high school in East Orange, New Jersey. Carol was almost an exact opposite of her best friend. She was short, on the chubby side, although very pretty, and had long blonde hair and soft blue eyes. She worked as a salesgirl in Macy's and was a great cook. She never asked more from life than being happy, and she was.

"Carol," Jerri began," I really think I can't take it any longer. Worse than that, I don't think I even WANT it any longer. It's such a rat race, such a disgusting life. You're treated like some kind of machine or something. And there's no one to even TALK to, everyone's into their own trip so much."

"Jerri, you know the answers. I've said it all before. YOU have to make the decision."

"Okay, I want to get out, now, today. I knew it when I saw myself on Feminine Image this afternoon. I thought to myself, what the hell would people think if they knew I had to let the photographer fuck me in the ass to get on the cover of that magazine? It's all so damn ludicrous."

"Still thinking about New Mexico?" Carol asked, with a knowing look in her eye.

"Of course. I think of it all the time. You know, I can remember it only faintly-that was when I was about six years old-but it seemed so wonderful. And I've read it's the ONLY place to live in this country where you can breathe clean air and not be bothered by this commercial world."