Footsie casting

A flirty blonde walks into the casting room like she owns the hardwood. Somebody mutters "here we go again" under their breath, and all the cameras click on. She peels off her street clothes piece by piece—first the skirt, then the bra that springs loose with one lazy tug. Three flash units fire as she drops to a squat, knees wide, hands between her thighs to spread herself for a tight, glistening close-up. She's already wet, lips parted like she's enjoying the whole ridiculous deal. Next shot, she plants a foot on the table, heel high, and the guy behind the lens zooms right on those painted toenails while she fingers herself slow, lazy circles that make the leather chair squeak. She laughs—actually laughs—when they ask her to switch angles, then drops onto all fours, ass up, knuckles white on the desk's edge. One photographer circles like a dog after a treat; the shutter keeps rattling and everybody pretends this is still about lighting tests. When the last frame snaps she licks her fingers clean, winks at the red "REC" light on the corner cam, and grabs her bag like nothing sweaty just happened. Ten minutes. Fifty shots. One outrageous permanent hard-on for every poor schlub who has to edit the footage.