Julie Moore let herself into the studio she had newly rented on West 11th Street with her husband Randy. The first thing she did was to pour herself a stiff brandy and sit down in her comfortable chair to think things over. Her head had been reeling all the way downtown from the gallery… Al Cortini had actually told Philip Randolph of his triumph over her… what a bastard and he had promised not to ever tell anyone. Obviously she had been a fool to trust him.

She remembered now the first time she had taken her artwork to his gallery, it had been 5:00 p.m., almost closing time and by the end of her interview she had realized that she was now alone in the gallery with Al Cortini. Somehow or other, she recalled now, she had known something was going to happen. She shuddered a little as she thought of his thick paunchy Italian body, his balding head and his watery, slightly bloodshot brown eyes. He wasn't exactly God's gift to women, she remembered. She didn't drink much then but she had accepted a scotch and soda and then another and she recalled now how before she knew what was happening she was sitting on his couch and he was fondling her breasts.

"Please Mr. Cortini," she protested in an anguished voice noticing for the first time the obvious bulge in his pants… yes that was how it had all begun… she leaned back now in her chair in her studio on West 11th Street and fully allowed herself to disappear into the memory of that fateful evening.

"Come off it baby," Al Cortini sneered, "don't tell me you didn't know I would want a little piece of your ass for a show. You've wiggled it at me enough by this time to excite me."

Then, as he massaged at the tender softness of her breasts, he pulled her back against him until she felt the hardness of his erect penis grinding into the small of her back.