It had been a long hard week of trooping around seeing as many of the producers and photographers that this town had to offer as I could. But I was not making any headway, not like in L.A. I really didn't want to go on stage, but it was the only thing I could do for now money. So I wandered into a small North Beach watering hole called Big Al's (it wasn't even on my list). At one time it had been the hot spot for all the headliners to work, but now, not so much. During the week a lot of the girls that I'd talked to said this was the area to work in, lots of clubs. Sometimes there would be a line of us, so it was natural for us girls to talk. All this went down while we waited to see the manager or his assistant. When the subject of good clubs verses bad came up, Big Al's was always the butt of a lot of jokes. "They'll hire you on the spot if you're good enough," said one long-legged redhead. There were stories of some newbie's being hired on the spot. One gal even went into one of the cages, stripped down naked for her audition, and signed her paperwork through the bars. Sadly for me, it was noted that she had a mighty fine pair of really big tits, so I was thinking my chances were pretty much a zero.

But there I stood at the front door of Big Al's. I took a deep breath and marched in. It was so dark that it took a few minutes before my eyes adjusted to the light. I walked to the bar and planted my ass on a stool. In short order I was speaking to the bartender, got my white wine, and then asked if the manager was around. I gazed around at the decor that appeared not to have changed in decades. Though the red lights were new, I suspected. The bar itself looked clean and tidy. A few girls were moving through the pack of customers that numbered maybe twenty at best. There were two stages, one directly behind the bartender, and the other directly across from the bar, a typical stage runway affair. But it was the cages that were so noticeable. Two hung from the ceiling by chains. They were made of bars with a plastic floor and were big enough for anyone to turn around in. The bars were placed far enough apart that any girl could stick her head through them. Why she'd want to... was beyond me.

I was still sitting there when one of the waitresses came over. I was, in fact, sitting next to the waitresses station. She looked me up and down and said, "Hi, I'm Daisy," with a cute smile and held out her hand.

"Hi back, I'm Holly," I replied and held out my hand. She laughed a little, and then we chatted for a few moments while she waited for her order to be built.

Eventually Daisy asked, "You in college?" She smiled and added, "or something?"

I said, "Or something," then launched into my story about meeting Teddy and moving up here and blah, blah, blah, omitting anything about the adult sex biz.

"Looking for a job?" she asked.

I shrugged and nodded.

"Wait here, the manager is going to love you. Oh, and watch my tray," she said. Before I could answer her, off she went to the back of the club and disappeared through a distant door. In a few minutes the door opened and she waved her arms as she yelled out my name, "Holly."

I made my way to the door and in seconds stood before the day manager. There she sat behind a crummy desk littered with papers and old landline telephones, which rang one after the other. As she calmly picked them up and slammed them down, her eyes never left me.

Daisy said, "Holly, this is our manager, Miss Scrumptious." Then she smiled.

I wish I could report that Miss Scrumptious was, but it must have been a joke. This gal was a bull dyke big time. Then she spoke to me in the softest voice I had ever heard. It started with, "Well aren't you a sweet one. Hmm. I am impressed. Daisy, you definitely found a good one for sure." Her eyes never left my body.

I couldn't help it. She was so genuine that I offered her my hand and said my obligatory "Hi! I'm Holly." She took my hand in hers, which was sweaty and a little cold. She asked to see my ID, which I dug out of my bag and gave to her. She said something about a nude entertainer's license; I said I had one in L.A., and she asked under what name.

"Holly Miles," I replied as quietly as I could.

She shook her finger at me and said, "I knew I'd seen your face before." Smiling at Daisy she said, "Tell Nelson that we have a special audition right now."