"Porn-Fed Steele" 1/?
Date: Wednesday, February 14, 2001
Lauryn Poynor <lpoynor@zebra.net>

Porn-Fed Steele

Part One - Rated NC-17

By Lauryn Andrea Poynor and Anne "Andrea" Rose

Thanks go out to Linda Bonnell for beta reading and advice

All feedback is welcomed and encouraged

Permission to archive granted

Laura shivered against the evening chill, mentally berating
herself for not having worn sturdier clothes, or warmer clothes, or more layers of clothes, or that item now at the top of her most wanted list - sensible shoes. She had always taken a certain surreptitious pride in the fact that she could shakedown any suspect, collar any criminal, flag down any felon - in the spikiest of sandals or most precarious of pumps. Extra points were smugly awarded for apprehensions in full evening wear - but tonight, she'd gotten off on the wrong foot entirely, and crime would have to take a holiday.

She glanced down at her thin cotton espadrilles with mounting chagrin. A sensible purchase at the time, she thought, but now her feet were freezing and blisters were forming on both heels.
Size six had felt too small and six and a half slightly big.
Vanity had made her choose the six. Now her feet were taking
their slow and painful revenge. At least she had the luck to be out of formal wear, and in casual slacks, cotton sweater, and jacket, flimsy though they were proving to be against the cold seeping through to her skin.

Teeth chattering, she glanced over at her partner who was
striding more quickly and far less painfully by her side.
Although she noticed his hands were in his pockets and the collar of his suit jacket turned up against the wind, he seemed not to really mind that the streetlights were fading and dampness was hanging in the air. Brow furrowed, lost in thoughts of his own, he appeared somehow, as he paced the concrete, to be perfectly, and maddeningly, at home.

Laura lengthened her stride to keep up with him. "Mr. Steele, as much as I'm enjoying the scenic wonders of this deluxe walking tour of Hollywood Boulevard don't you think it's time we get down to business?"

Startled, he slowed a bit and looked at her distractedly. "What was that, Laura? Sorry, I must have been daydreaming."

"I said, don't you think it's time we get down to business?" She pulled her jacket tightly against her chest, shivering as she spoke the words into the chill air.

"Could you be a little more specific? After all, being dead
rather limits our options. What sort of business did you have in mind?"

"Sleeping together."

Steele's head snapped around, eyebrows raised, blue eyes wide with interest.

Laura slapped her forehead, flustered and annoyed at her
unconscious verbal slip. "I mean - sleeping arrangements, um, finding a place to sleep, Mr. Steele."

"You always say precisely what you mean, Miss Holt. Such an
admirable trait." He teased her with a lopsided grin. "I'd be happy to oblige - although I was going to suggest we shower first."

"Just where are we going to find a place to sleep let alone
shower on ten bucks?"

"Laura, you're such a pessimist."

"Only around you."

"Relax, Miss Holt. I'm sure there's a park bench somewhere big enough for both of us."

Laura stopped dead and grabbed him by the arm. "You're joking. Aren't you?"

Sensing her growing anxiety, Steele turned to face her, resting his hands on her shoulders. He smiled down at her in
reassurance. "I was. Yes. Well, not entirely. As options go,
park benches are several ranks down on the list."

"Oh? And what's first then?" Laura asked, her tone an odd
mixture of dread and curiosity.

"Four blocks up and on the right, I think. He offered her his arm. "Shall we?"


"A porno movie house?" Laura exclaimed in disbelief, decibel
level rising into the stratosphere. She stared up at the
marquee, its bright red lettering displaying the feature for the day - "Hot Hips Holly" - Rated Triple X.

"Laura, don't be so provincial. It's perfect. Meets all the
requirements. Roof over our heads, open all night."

Laura stared daggers at Steele as he rattled on with growing
enthusiasm. "Cushioned furnishings, snack bar for those late
night urges to nibble, widescreen entertainment -"

"You had it right the first time."


"Roof over our heads. Open all night. I think you hit the good points - all two of them."

"Not quite. There's at least one more."

"Ha! What could it possibly be?"

"It's $9.95. For both of us. And it has central heating."

"Point taken." Laura glowered up at Steele's relieved
countenance. "I'm sold, Mr. Steele." She proceeded to the
ticket counter, walking gingerly. "As long as I can take off
these shoes."

The grey-haired attendant barked at them in an accent somewhere between Brooklyn and Queens, "Popcorn's on special tonight. Fifty cents with each admission." He scratched at the collar of his "I Love LA" T-shirt and pointed at the concession stand. "Just show 'em your ticket."

Laura stared longingly at the rows of Raisinettes, Reese's
Pieces, and Hershey's Kisses. She breathed in the scent of
popcorn and chocolate until, light-headed, she found herself
grasping the sticky counter in weak-kneed reaction. "Mr. Steele, can you spare a dime? I mean, fifty cents?"

Steele dug into the recesses of his trouser pockets for some
change. He spread out forty cents on the counter and frowned
down at it. "Laura I think I saw a dime out there on the
sidewalk. I'll go check. Just save me a spot in line, eh?"

"Jeez, I switch to the night shift and I get stuck with the last of the big spenders." The fifty-ish blonde cashier rolled her eyes in disbelief. "Tell ya what, just to speed things up for Donald Trump here, I'll raid the penny jar."

"Bless you, madam. One special popcorn, please."

The blonde filled the container and glanced back at Steele.
"Plain or with butter? Just so you know, we throw in the butter for free."

Steele eyed Laura, eyebrow raised questioningly.

"Plain, please." Best to be cautious, Laura decided. Who knew what they put in the food in a place like this? "How much are those Hershey's Kisses?"

"Dollar fifty. I'll check, but I don't think I have that much in my penny jar."

"Laura, I think our account is a bit overdrawn. We agreed we
wouldn't spend more than ten dollars."

The overpowering smell of chocolate filled Laura's nostrils. She felt like a bow string pulled taut and ready to snap. "Mr. Steele, maybe you could knock off that parking meter outside."

"Laura, please." Steele gave the cashier a nervous smile.
"You're not yourself. Let's dig in to that popcorn, eh? You'll feel better in no time."

"Sorry, Mr. Steele." Laura straightened and with visible effort averted her eyes from the candy display. "I lost my head. I'm fine, really." She released her tight grip on the counter and picked up the popcorn. "Just fine." She strode purposefully, eyes front, toward the theater entrance. Steele shrugged apologetically and then turned to follow her.

The cashier called after them. "Hershey's Kisses are on special Wednesday nights. Seventy-five cents. Maybe you can save up for a big night on the town. You only live once, ya know."


The theater was nearly empty as they made their way down the
aisle. A contingent of frat boys from UCLA was exiting from the rear, while a middle-aged man with horn-rimmed glasses sat front and center in the third row. His studious air was belied by the filthy raincoat he wore buttoned up to his chin.

Steele spotted what he'd been looking for about midway from the screen. "Since we're going to need to get some sleep Laura, perhaps that love seat would be most comfortable." She nodded, and limping slightly, moved sideways toward it until she was able to sink gratefully into the cushions. She kicked off her shoes with a relieved sigh. Steele joined her and they sat, squeezed somewhat tightly together, thighs and knees touching. Their hands remained resolutely in their laps.

Steele was first to break the silence. "Strangely enough, I was here, sitting a few rows up, just last month."

"Mr. Steele, if you'd prefer not to share the experience - "

"Love to, Miss Holt. It was a marvelous film. An artistic
landmark. Exquisite acting and cinematography. A deep,
penetrating look at life and love in a small town."

Laura stared in complete surprise, pictures of him watching the on screen action filling her mind. "Deep? Penetrating?"

"Jeff Bridges, Cybill Shepherd-"

"Cybill Shepherd is a porn star?"

"Nonsense, Laura. "The Last Picture Show." Cybill Shepherd,
Timothy Bottoms, Ben Johnson, Columbia,1971. Saw it here at the midnight show. This theater used to run classic movies and that was their final screening. Appropriate given the title, don't you think? Two young men coming of age in a small Texas town inherit a run-down cinema-"

Suddenly the house lights dimmed and a swift series of images filled the screen. A rocket blasted from a launching pad as a melodramatic voice-over intoned the words "countdown - to ecstasy." Phallic symbols flashed in rapid succession: an erupting volcano, an atomic mushroom cloud, an oil geyser, a dam bursting, culminating in a final montage of male genitalia being massaged to climax. The tag line boomed from the overhead speakers: "Exxstasy Films. Nothing else - comes close."

Steele stared at the screen, feeling more than slightly
embarrassed. He was beginning to think this visit to the Hot Hips Holly Holiday Inn was a very bad idea. He looked out of the corner of his eye at Laura, anxiously awaiting her reaction. Had he only imagined that sharp intake of breath a brief moment ago? She seemed perfectly calm now, taking it all in stride. Still, perhaps he should do the gentlemanly thing and - "Laura, if you'd like to use my jacket and um, cover up as it were, or perhaps we could move to the back row."

"Whatever for, Mr. Steele?" Laura munched her popcorn with
apparent nonchalance. "My horizons are yours to expand. Besides, now that I've taken off these shoes I'm not moving." The floor felt very sticky under her stockinged feet. She didn't want to imagine from what.

"Look, ah, I think I saw a water fountain outside. I'm going to see if can get us a cup and some ice."

"Hurry back. I wouldn't want you to miss any cinematic

"Shouldn't take long. Errand of mercy. Thought you might be
getting thirsty, Miss Holt."

"Oh, I am. How thoughtful of you to think of something to cool me off, Mr. Steele."

"Yes, well, um, I'll see what I can find." He moved down the
aisle in a distracted fog, wondering if he was once more
misreading her signals.


"Well, Mr. Trump. We meet again. Find some spare change under the seat?"

"Not exactly, um, Roxanne." Steele said with forced
cheerfulness, as he read her name from her plastic ID. "I was wondering if I could interest you in a trade of sorts."

"Yeah?" She popped her gum. "What would that be? The number to your secret Swiss bank account for a Milky Way? Keys to your Mercedes for some Raisinettes?"

Steele dug deeply into his trouser pockets until he unearthed a pair of solid gold cuff links. He placed them on the counter and said with grim finality, "These. For a large cup of ice."

He noted with satisfaction the flicker of greed that crossed her face. "Are those real gold?" She lifted them in her palm, testing their weight. They seemed real, she thought, but what was too good to be true was usually exactly that.

"Turn them over."

"Cartier? No kidding? Nah, they gotta be knock offs." She
looked around nervously.

"What if they aren't?" He smiled slightly, knowing she was

She scooped them up and thrust them into the pocket of her

"On second thought," Steele said, "I'll have a large Sprite and a large Diet Coke. With extra ice. And a bag of Hershey's Kisses."

Still eyeing him with suspicion, Roxanne filled his order quickly and turned off her register. "OK, Donald, now you're on your own. Snack bar's closed."

"It's been a pleasure." Steele flashed her an insincere smile. He knew the blonde would be on her way to the nearest pawnshop by morning. He could redeem the cuff links later, once they had arranged a safe meeting with Mildred. He found them when he'd been digging in his pockets for change. He'd started to wear them on the trip back from New York, but changed to another pair. The trade had been worth it. Laura hadn't eaten for hours. He'd eaten a light meal on the plane but she hadn't been hungry. Too tired to eat, she'd said.

Steele gathered his hard won trophies and headed back to the
theater. If only he had carried more cash he and Laura wouldn't be scraping for pennies. Not carrying cash was an old habit. Sometimes, in his former life, he'd simply been skint, flatbroke. But even when he wasn't, he packed light. He knew better than most that a fat wallet was fair game for any passerby with light fingers.

Somehow, Steele felt, someone from his past was tied up in all of this, in the murders at his apartment. He'd been outwardly calm and reassuring for Laura's sake but he knew he had placed her in danger, in the path of a killer. He would do anything he could, use any skills he possessed, to keep her safe and alive. He hoped it would be enough.


When he arrived, carrying the drinks and candy she stared at him in wonder. "Mr. Steele. How on earth -?"

"Our friendly bleached blonde at the concession stand. I've seen her before at the track. Swapped these for a tip on a horse." He handed her the Diet Coke and the Hershey's Kisses.

"You're a hard bargainer, Mr. Steele." She tore open the bag, breathing in its restorative scent. "I hope it was a good tip."

"A solid gold tip if ever there was one." Steele slid in close beside her. She felt warm and dry and smelled pleasantly of popcorn. Light from the screen flickered across her face as she savored a bite of a chocolate kiss. Her eyes were closed, one corner of her mouth lifting up in a dreamy smile. He smiled back.

During his absence, trailers had continued to hawk the coming attractions. He stared, idly curious, at the scene, as groups of topless biker chicks roared in tandem down the highway. "It was a long, strange trip," the narration began, "through the Summer of Love - 1967. Hippies and Harley honeys only after one thing: something big, throbbing and powerful to put between their legs. They were - Sleazy Riders." An ersatz version of "Born to Be Wild" blared from the speakers as the screen filled with well endowed bikers sporting leather and tattoos being rhythmically and enthusiastically straddled by various females.

Even a second rate version of "Born to be Wild" took Laura back to her college days. How often had she abused the speakers in her bright yellow ragtop by cranking that song to the max? True, her VW Beetle always sounded more like a washing machine than a Panhead Harley when she revved it up - but in those simpler times there was room on the open road for everyone. Score one for democracy.

Her circle of friends in college had been mostly male and she had never formed many close female friendships. She wondered what those over-achieving girls from 4 East would say if they could see her now. There was only one female she'd known who wouldn't bat an eyelash at her current predicament.

Jolene McSwain, n_e Robicheaux, was from Cajun country in Bayou Teche. A sharp-eyed stunner with a head (and a body) for business, she and Laura crossed paths in a few Business Math courses and struck up an unorthodox friendship. When her scholarship ran out, Jolene worked the pole in a strip club until she hooked up with a boyfriend in the blue movie business. Hearing someone croon "Give me some o' dat, bay-be" in a sexy Cajun accent, 38DD bra and crotchless panties, was pretty novel and soon she was on her way to being a headliner.

Laura and a few of her dorm mates were dragged to the local porn palace in hopes of a glimpse of Jolene in all of her glory, but even when she wasn't on screen her riotous commentary on the ins and outs of the action had them in stitches.

After graduation Jolene moved to Hollywood and Laura lost track of her until one day she got a call that she was glad Bernice didn't answer. Jolene, who now worked as a producer, discovered that several months' worth of film footage was missing from the inventory and she needed to know why and pronto. Laura tried to beg off but Jolene insisted she come down to the set and investigate all of the likely suspects. They're just professionals, like everyone else, Laura reasoned. Also, the agency was struggling in those early days before Steele made his appearance, and Jolene had cash to burn.

After a week on the set posing as Jolene's personal assistant, Laura uncovered the culprits. It was an inside scheme to sell off the film stock to a rival company in the underground market overseas. Laura's experience had been an eye-opener to say the least, but a well paid one, and definitely a change from the buttoned down office routine.

Some of the male suspects had made some unsubtle passes, but
she'd only been slightly tempted. The thought of a romp with
someone who was long past amateur status seemed a bit too
experimental for comfort.

The trickiest part of the whole business had been hiding the
nature of the case from Murphy and Bernice. Jolene wasn't exactly a shrinking violet. Laura had been terrified whenever the phone rang that Jolene's husky Cajun cadence would purr across the line. Laura sent up a fervent prayer of thanks that Mr. Steele hadn't been with the agency then. With his uncanny ability to hone in on any hidden deceptions of hers, he would have ferreted out the truth, she was sure of it.

She was suddenly terribly curious about something. What would Mr. Steele think of her if he knew it now? Would he be shocked? Turned on? She pushed the questions to the back of her mind. Part of her would take devious pleasure in shaking him up a little buther rational side was stronger, at least for the moment. Whoknew how he'd react? Why look for trouble? She had a feeling before this night was over they both would have more than they could handle.

Thoughts of the past had temporarily rescued her from having to think about what was going to happen tonight both on and off screen. Suddenly Laura was becoming acutely aware of his
closeness. In the narrow confines of the loveseat there was no way for them to sit without their bodies touching. Steele was watching the screen surreptitiously, she noted, chin turned away from her and slightly downward, like a schoolboy cribbing from his classmate's homework. Startled, his head snapped up when she touched his arm.

"Popcorn, Mr. Steele?"

"Oh, you finish it off, Miss Holt. I've had all I can handle for awhile."

"I still have plenty of Kisses."

"Hmm. Perhaps we'll save those for later."


The last of the red hot skinflick trailers had bumped and grinded to a halt and the feature presentation was about to start. Over the distractions of a pounding disco beat and an overworked smoke machine, a day in the life of "Hot Hips Holly," an exotic dancer at "The Executive Sweet," was revealed: a tale of naked ambition and steamy, sequined sex. The portrait of a young up and comer, bent on dethroning her glamorous, but fading rival. It was "All About Eve" with pasties, Velcro-snap G-strings, and "go, lover, go."

A big-haired blonde in a fur bikini and a leopard skinned garter was re-touching her nails. "Kid, I got thongs older than you and I seen lots of girls work the catwalk. You ain't gonna beat Venus Envy at her own game. She's got moves you can only dream of."

The raven haired Venus, wearing jeweled sandals and a glittering, white G-string under her toga-inspired wrap, smugly agreed. "I've got a hundred moves, little girl, and you ain't even up to "love motion no.9."

At this jibe, Laura burst into a fit of giggles. She glanced
over at Steele, who wasn't laughing. He'd probably never heard that song before. One of these days she was going to teach him there was more to life than Gershwin and Sinatra.

Steele shushed her with annoyance. "Laura, please. You really don't want to attract any unwanted attention in here."

"Where's your sense of humor, Mr. Steele?"

"I'm sure it will return as soon as it hears something that's actually funny." He folded his hands in his lap and stared pointedly at the screen as if he was daring Laura to crack a smile.

Venus continued her short list of insults. "Why, good golly Miss Holly. What was the name of that low rent club you used to work in? 'The Bush League?'"

Holly tossed her chestnut mane and hiked up her leather bustier. "The clubs I headlined don't hire women your age - you've been around the block so many times you could run a marathon without breaking a sweat."

Good golly. The Clovers and now Little Richard, Laura mused. It was an unexpected twist. Unfortunately, the dialogue soon
degenerated into the more monosyllabic, once Venus undraped and launched into her Roman orgy routine. Friends, Romans, and countrymen (toga partying strip club customers) were serviced with a smile and all three of the working girls lost their Vestal virginity.

"Give it to me, Maximus. Your juicy love javelin, and you too, Brutus," Venus moaned as the threesome tied itself into a love knot.

"Love javelin? Oh my. I've never heard that term for it before. You know, that dark-haired Maximus fellow looks a bit like you - under that laurel wreath."

"You're joking, Laura. I'd say he's several inches shy."

"Is he, really? Are you saying he doesn't quite measure up, Mr. Steele?"

"Most definitely not."

"You know," Laura teased, deliberately misreading the veiled
sexual reference, "I have to agree. They say most male porn
stars are under 5'8". Makes, ah, other things look bigger in

Steele was immediately on the alert. "Where did you pick up that bit of information, Miss Holt?"

End Part 1
To Part 2