Porno (34 page)

He looks all hurt and serious and says: — Hey, that is a good friend of mine you are talking about, man.

I make a transparently insincere apology and, having no sense of irony, he grudgingly accepts it. I get up to look for this girl at the bar but instead I find myself talking to Jill from Bristol. I don’t know if she can read, write or drive a tractor, but I reckon that she can bang like an ootside-lavvy door in a gale. I’m subsequently proved correct as we spend most of the night cheerfully doing just that back at her hotel. I call Rents on his mobby and he gives me a sulky, — Where did you get tae?

I inform him that I’ve met a nice young lady while he can go back home to his nutty bird and enjoy the only kind of fuck he ever gets, one of the head variety. For Katrin, substitute . . . what was that screwball lassie he went out with in the bygone days? . . . Hazel. Yes, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

This Jill’s a goer, a totally unpretentious lassie on holiday who does what totally unpretentious lassies on holiday do, and thank fuck. The next morning we go through the stilted motions of swapping phone numbers.

I’m a bit miffed that I don’t have any time to freeload a breakfast from her hotel as I have to get to Renton’s flat and pick up my holdall. When I get there I half expect to find Rents in a cosy foursome with Miz and the Moroccans, but it’s Katrin who answers the door in her dressing gown and lets me in. — Si-mahnn . . . she says in her tenebrously dramatic way.

Renton is up, draped on couch in an orange towelling bathrobe, channel-hopping as usual. The carrot-visuals are overwhelming. — Mark, my mobile’s down, can I borrow yours? I just need to text a message off to this hot chick.

He gets up and digs the phone out of his jacket pocket. I punch in the text:

HI DOLLFACE. CAN’T WAIT 2 GET LOOSE ON YOUR PRETTY ASS AGAIN. HOPE PRISON HASN’T SLACKENED IT 2 MUCH. IT’LL BE MINE AGAIN SOON. YOUR OLD CHUM.

I fish out my address book and punch in Franco’s number. Message sent. Just call me Cupid.

I quickly say my goodbyes and head round to the station where I catch the airport train just in time. On the train I sweat just in case Renton has taken anything valuable, and check the contents of my bag. My excellent Ronald Morteson sweater’s still there. More important, has he seen anything incriminating? I know his mentality, he’ll have been through the lot with a fine toothcomb. No, everything still seems to be there.

I get off the flight, into a taxi and down to the pub. Rab’s there with a couple of student mates and loads of equipment. Betacams, DVs, 8 mil cameras, a monitor, sound stuff and lighting. He introduces the students as Vince and Grant and I let them upstairs.

Our set is minimalist: a load of mattresses on the floor. As they set up the equipment and the talent starts to file in, the air is crackling with excitement. My heart skips as Nikki dances in, stealing up to me and purring: — How was Amsterdam?

— Excellent, more of which later, I smile, turning to wave at Melanie as she walks in. My second leading lady is a very sexy girl – in the sense of a deep-sea fish supper being
exactly
what you want on occasion – but hardly haute cuisine. She should be beautiful, but economic and social circumstances have made her handle herself differently to Nikki. When I start to think like this, I thank the Lord I’ve got an Italian mother.

My cast, my crew; and what a bunch they are. Apart from Mel, Gina and Nikki, there’s Jayne her sauna-hoor pal, and the Swedish (or is it Norwegian) lassie Ursula, who isn’t as good-looking as she sounds, but is a total fuck-machine. There’s also Wanda, Mikey’s hoor, who looks a bit deranged with her smacked-out eyes, sitting cross-legged in the corner. Myself, Terry and his shagger mates Ronnie and Craig are present. Rab and his student chums are looking a bit uncomfortable.

It becomes evident in rehearsal that I am going to have problems with Terry and his firm. The sex parts they’re not too bad at, they get enough practice, but they don’t understand the difference between shagging for the camera and making a porn flick. Moreover, the acting is atrocious. Even the most rudimentary lines, and they are very fucking rudimentary indeed, are invariably fluffed. My idea is to build their confidence by starting off with what they can do. So we’ll shoot the sex scenes first, starting with the orgy, which is the end scene, but which will give them encouragement, and should help with building a sense of
esprit de corps
.

There are so many basic problems. I’ve cast Melanie in a teenage role, which should be roughly appropriate to her age. But I’m looking at her arms, with ‘Brian’ and ‘Kevin’ tattooed on them. — Melanie, you’re supposed to be an innocent virgin. Those tattoos need to be covered up.

She raises her eyes through a fog of Embassy Regal, then has a giggle with Nikki. That Gina’s looking around as if she wants to fuck, tear apart, then eat every person in the room.
Très
game. Tis a pity she’s a hound.

I slap my hands together for attention. — Righto, folks. C’mon, luvvies, c’mon. Listen! Today is the start of the rest of your lives. What you’ve done before is stag. Now we’re doing a proper adult movie. So the ability to get right into it, to stop and start is crucial. Has everybody learned their lines?

— Yeah, Nikki drawls.

— Suppose, Melanie sniggers.

Terry shrugs, in a manner that tells me that cunt has learned fuck all. I feel my eyes rolling and my head scanning the ceiling for inspiration. It’s as well that we’re starting with the shagging.

Melanie and Terry are raring to go. The kit comes off unselfconsciously and Rab’s mates are busying themselves with the equipment. It
is
weird watching Juice Terry in the buff, as Rab shows me the shot through the Betacam’s monitor. I switch on one of the digital video recorders and pull out to get them both in frame. Grant fusses a bit over the lighting, getting burn-out off the shot, and Vince tells us that we’re running up on sound. — Action! C’mon, Tez, take your cleaver to that beaver, I say, no that he needs any encouragement in that direction, cause he’s straight on her, working her with his fingers and his tongue. I zero in slowly, my intrusive eye on that slurping tongue and that moist gash. She’s a bit stiff though, so I stop the action. — You seem a little bit tense, Melanie, love, I observe.

— Ah cannae git intae it wi everybody watching, she complains. — It’s no like back in the pub whin wir aw gaun fir it.

— Well, you’ll have to. That’s the porn business, darling, I tell her. I watch Nikki looking at them, wanton and animalistic, her sharp wee tongue flicking horn-salt from those slightly cruel lips, and I feel a bit of inspiration. I can read a bitch like a book, and she is hot for action. — Look, a new rule on the set. Either you take off your clathes or you fuck off downstairs, I say, unbuckling my belt.

Rab looks mortified, standing there behind the tripod. He glances at Nikki, then at Gina, who’s already peeling off her top. Nikki starts to take hers off as well and I pause for a second to admire the motion of it being pulled over her head. Fuck me, that lassie’s well fit. In quite a wholesome, sporty, PE-girl manner, Nikki says to the crew: — C’mon, boys, as she removes her bra and exposes those tanned tits, which look as firm as rocks, sending a strong radar signal to my groin. She unbuttons the skirt and then pulls down her pants and steps out of them to expose a freshly shaved minge.

— Ni-kay . . . I say, involuntarily sounding like Ben Dover in his videos, that appreciative punctuation absolutely essential.

— Ready for action, she pouts and purrs.

Fuck me, this was the lassie I was supposed to meet years ago. We would have ruled the world. Still will.

Concentrate, Simon. I take refuge behind the lens trying to snap into technical mode.

Now Gina’s big tits are bouncing around everywhere and Terry’s eyes are popping out of his head. Sometimes he distresses me, this sordid appreciation for quantity versus quality.

Poor Rab is still shiteing it, but you can tell that he wants to stay. — I’m just on the creative side . . . my fiancée’s having a kid . . . I don’t want to do this . . . I want to be a film-maker, not a fuckin porn star!

— Well, the crew can do what they want, but I’m getting into the spirit of it, I announce, taking off my T-shirt and glancing at the wall mirror. The gut doesn’t look too bad, the gym and the diet kicking in. I put it on easily, but I lose it easily. Just a fine-tuning of the regime; no fried food, spirits rather than beer, the gym three times a week rather than just once, walking rather than piling into motors, cocaine in and weed out, and yes, back on the cigarettes. The result: the pounds fairly fly off.

Wanda looks up and announces in a smacked-out drawl that the sexiest-looking guys are the ones with their clothes on, which disconcerts me, and the rest of the talent. — See? Yir big wi junky hoors, Rab, Terry says, and Wanda flips him a casual V-sign.

My tactic has worked, though, because soon Terry and Melanie are really going for it and I’m getting horny. Then Nikki comes over to me and says: — I think I’d like to sit on your knee?

I’m almost ready to respond with ‘go away, I’m directing’ but it comes out as: — Okay, in a low gasp as those delightful buttocks are gracefully lowered onto my thigh. I feel my cock stiffen and bend up into the hollow of her spine as we watch Terry and Mel in action. I must remain focused, remember that I’m in the director’s chair. — Lie back, Terry; sit on it, Mel . . .

Discipline.

Mel’s sucking on Terry’s dick, flicking the end, slurping the shaft and after a bit Terry guides her across the back of the big padded chair . . . Nikki twists a little, easing further back against me . . .

Mel’s elbows are on the chair and Terry’s slipped one in from behind. Nikki’s hair flows down her back, its peachy scent dancing in my nostrils . . . threatening to drench my senses . . .

Now Terry’s withdrawing and I cough out some words of encouragement as my hand rests idly on Nikki’s thigh, that smooth, unblemished silk-like skin . . .

Terry’s in again and he and Mel are fucking piston-hard now, Mel setting the pace, thudding back into that dick of his like she’s trying to devour it. Terry’s got that complacent, dreamy look men have when they’re enjoying sex, like it’s no big deal. That kind of zoning-off when you’re with a tidy bird to stop you from blowing your muck, or when you’re with a hound, only then it’s in order to keep it up. Basically, though, it’s the same fucking thing.

I decide to stop the action there. — Cut! Stop, Terry! STOP!

— What the fuck . . . Terry groans.

— Right, Mel, Terry, I want you to try the Reverse Cowgirl, the classic shot we need for a porn movie.

Terry looks over at me and moans: — Ye cannae git a good fuck that wey.

— This isnae aboot you having a good fuck, Terry, it’s aboot you
looking as if
you’re having a good fuck. Think hireys! Think art!

I briefly glance round to see that the others are sleazing each other up, except Rab and the crew. Gina’s looking at me with a predatory smirk on her face. She asks: — When dae we go in?

— I’ll tell you, I nod, fully intending, even at this point, that most of her scenes won’t survive the edit.

Melanie’s got a good frame for the Pope John Paul (as we in the trade call the Reverse Cowgirl, or RC), light and lithe, but with a bit of power to her. Terry’s just lying there, that fine piece of wood he packs enclosed by Melanie who’s going up and down on it. His hands grip her waist as he alters the pace and digs a bit more and she starts scowling. — That’s the game, Terry, earn your corn. Fuck her! Mel, try to keep your eyes on the camera. Keep looking at the camera. Fuck Terry, but love the lens. Terry’s just the fucking prop, just an appendage to your pleasure. You’re the star, baby, you’re the star . . . Nikki’s reached behind and wrapped a hand round my shaft, — . . . and you’re beautiful, this is your show . . .

I push Nikki away gently, then, standing up and taking her by the hand, I shout: — Cut! Then I explain to Nikki: — I want you in there, down on Terry’s cock. Terry, you’re doing great. Now you lick out Mel while Nikki sucks you off.

— Bit ah want tae fuckin come! he moans as Ursula approaches him with towels and he pulls a face before heading to the toilets for a clean-up.

— C’mon, Tel, I shout at him, — don’t be so fucking ungrateful. I said you’re licking out Mel while Nikki’s sucking you off. Aye, it’s a hard life right enough.

We get that shot sorted out. Nikki down on Terry’s knob makes me feel strangely weird, especially as she seems to be loving it. I’m relieved when it’s over and we knock off for lunch, or at least the rest do. Rab and I go over what we’ve filmed on the monitor. I have to mobby the others because they’re just sitting in the fucking pub. Nikki seems to have been drinking, probably needs it for Dutch courage. It’s strange but I’m starting to feel that uncomfortable, proprietorial way about her. I’m not happy at the thought of her being done by Lawson on camera. And there’s a lot worse to come.

Gina’s still whingeing at me. — Me n Ursula n Ronnie n Craig huvnae done nowt yet.

— We introduce each person one at a time, building up to the climax, I tell again. — Patience! I get Terry and Mel back pumping away. — Try it in her arse now, Terry, I say, — c’mon, Lawson, let’s see some anal action . . .

My motivating powers aren’t really needed here: it’s like encouraging Dracula to go for the jugular. Terry pulls Mel from him, lays her out and bends her legs right back over his shoulders. He spits ferociously, working the gob into her arsehole and then edges in slowly. I nod to Nikki and we each take one of Mel’s buttocks and we’re pulling them apart as Terry pushes in. I’ve instructed Rab to attend to the position of the cameras so we’ve one close up on the arse action and one on Mel’s face so we can cut between them in the edit.